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TENNYSON'S  POEMS 


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And  the  .: 
Steer'd  by  the  dumb  went  upward  with  the  flood- 
In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 
The  letter.  ..... 

For  she  did  not  seem  as  dead. 
But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  tho'  she  smiled. 


THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


OF 


ALFRED   TENNYSON, 


POET    LAUREATE. 


NUMER  OUS    ILL  USTRA  TJONS. 


NEW    YORK: 
HARPER    &     BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN    SQUARE. 
1870. 


To  the  present  edition  are  added  "  Timbuctool'  the  authors 
Cambridge  University  Prize  Poem ;  Poems  published  in  the  edi- 
tion of  1830,  and  omitted  in  later  editions ;  and  a  number  of 
hitherto  uncollected  Poems  from  various  sources. 


CONTENTS. 


PoKMB  (PnbH8b«d  1880)  :— 

To  the  Qaeen 

ClaribeJ 

Ultan 

laabei 

Mariaiu 

To 

Madeline. 

Song.— The  Owl 

Second  Song 

RecoUeGtions  of  the  Arabian  Nights 

Ode  to  Memory 

Song 

Adeline 

A  Oliaracter. 

The  Poet 

The  Poefs  Mind 

The  Sea-Fairies 

The  Deserted  House 

The  Dying  Swan 

A  Dirge 

Lore  and  Death. 

The  Ballad  of  Oriana 

Circnmstance 

The  Merman 

The  Mermaid 

Sonnet  to  J.  M.  K. 

PoKMS  (Published  183!)  :— 

The  Lady  of  Shalott 

Mariana  in  the  Soath 

EleAnore 

The  Miller's  Daughter 

Fatlma. 

CEnone 

The  Sisters 

To 

The  Palace  of  Art 

Lady  Clara  VeredeVere 

The  May  Queen 

New- Year's  Kre. 

Conclusion 

The  Lotos-Eaters 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Women 

Margaret 

The  Blackbird 

The  Death  of  the  OldTear 

To  J.8. 

"  Tou  ask  me  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease" 

"  Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heigh ta" 

"Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought" 
The  Gooee 

ExousB  Idtls  Ain>  oron  Pobmb  (Published 
1848):— 

The  Epic. 

Morte  d' Arthur 

The  Gardener's  Daughter ;  or,  the  Pictares.. 

Dora 

Audley  Court 

Walking  to  the  Mail 

Edwin  Morris :  or,  The  Lake. 

St.  Simeon  Stylltes 


IS 

18 

13  f 

14 

14 

15 

15 

16 

1« 

IG 

i: 

IT 
IT 

18 
18 
18 
19 
19 


The  Talking  Oak. 54 

Love  and  Duty M 

The  Qolden  Year 67 

Ulysses BT 

LocksleyHall W 

Godiva 68 

The  Two  Voices. M  ^ 

The  Day-Dream ; 88 

Araphion. .  • 70 

A  Will  Waterproors  Lyrical  Monologue 71 

To ,  after  reading  a  Life  and  Letters. .  7S 


/^ 


Lady  Clare 78 

St.  Agnes 74  • 

Sir  Galahad 76 

To  E.  L.  on  his  Travels  In  Greece 78 

The  Lord  of  Burieigh 78 

Edward  Gray 77 

Sir  Launcelut  and  Queen  Guinevere 77 

A  Farewell 78 

The  Vision  of  Sin 78 

"  Come  not,  when  I  am  dead" 80 

The  Eagle. 80 

"Move  eastward,  happy  Earth,  and  leave".  80 

"  Break,  break,  break" 80 

The  Beggar  Maid 81 

The  Poet's  Song. 81 

ThbPkinoxss:  A  MniLiY 8S 

Ik  Mrmosiaji 106 

Maitd,  anp  otheb  Pobmb: — 

Maud 129 

The  Brook:  an  Idyl 142- 

The  Letters 148 

Ode  on  the  Death  ol  the  Duke  ofWellington  144 

The  Daisy 148 

To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice 147 

Will 147  ' 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 147  > 

Idtls  of  thk  Kino  •.—(The  "  IdyU  of  the  King" 
thould  be  read  in  the  order  here  indicated.) 

Dedication 148 

The  Coming  of  Arthur 808 

Enid 148 

Vivien 181 

Elaine 188 

The  Holy  OraiL Ml 

Pelleas  and  Ettarre 817 

Guinevere. 177 

The  Passing  of  Arthur* 881 

EmOOB  AKDKIf 183 


Additional  Pokms:— 

Aylmer's  Field 190 

Sea  Dreams 195  ^ 

The  Grandmother. 198  ^ 

Northern  Farmer 900 

Tithonus. 901 

The  Voyage 908 


•  Thb  lut,  Um  MrllMt  written  of  tb*  poaint,  U  hm  codmcM  witb 
thr  rMt,  ia  aceordanct  with  •■>  Mrljr  pr^jtct  of  lk«  ■■tkorV 


CONTENTS. 


P»fCe 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz. 203 

The  Flowerl 203 

Thelelet 203 

Reqniescat 203 

The  Sailor-boy 203 

The  Ringlet 203 

A  Welcome  to  Alexandra 204 

Ode  Bung  at  the  Opening  of  the  Interna- 
tional Exhibition 204 

A  Dedication 204 

The  Captain :  a  Legend  of  the  Navy 204 

Three  Sonnets  to  a  Coquette 206 

On  a  Mourner 206 

Song 206 

Song 206 

EXPEBIMKNTS; — 

Boildicea 207 

In  Ciuantlty 207 

Specimen  of  a  Translation  of  the  Iliad  In 
Blank  Ver«e 208 

Miscellaneoub: — 

The  Northern  Farmer.    New  ptyle 225 

The  Victim 226 

Wages 227 

The  Higher  Pantheinn 827 

"  Flower  in  the  Crannied  WaU" 227 

Lucretius. 227 

The  Golden  Supper W 


ADDITIONAL    POEMS, 

PRINTED  EXCLUSIVELY  IN  THIS  EDITION. 
TiMBCOToo 288 

Poems  (Published  in  the  Edition  of  1830,  and  omit- 
ted in  later  Editions)  :— 

BlegiacK 286 

The  "How"  and  tlie  "Why" 286 


Pifte 

Supposed  Confessions  of  a  Second-rate  Sen- 
sitive Mind  not  in  Unity  with  Itself. 235 

The  Burial  of  Love. 237 

To 237 

Song 237 

Song 237 

Song 287 

Nothing  will  Die 288 

All  Things  will  Die 238 

Hero  to  Leander 238 

The  Myotic 239 

The  Grasshopper. 239 

Love,  Pride,  and  Forget  fulness. 289 

Chorus  in  an  Unpublished  Drama,  written 

very  early , 239 

Lost  Hope 240 

The  Tears  of  Heaven. 240 

Love  and  Sorrow 240 

To  a  Lady  Sleeping 240 

Sonnet 240 

Sonnet 240 

Sonnet 240 

Sonnet 240 

Love 241 

The  Kraken 241 

Enjrlii'h  War-Soug 241 

National  Song 241 

OnaliBms 24S 

We  are  Free 242 

Ol  {tiovrtt 842 

OooABiONAL  Poems:— 

The  Sklpplng-Rope 848 

The  New  Timon  and  the  Poet* 848 

After-Thought 848 

Sonnet 848 

Britons,  Guard  yonr  Own 848 

The  Third  of  February,  18B2. 243 

Hands  all  Round 244 

The  War 244 

lfi«5-lS86 244 

On  8  Spiteful  letter 245 


THE    POET   LAUREATE. 


POEMS. 

(published  1830.) 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 

lUmiD,  beloved— O  you  that  hold 

A  nobler  office  upon  earth 

Than  anna,  or  power  of  brain  or  birth 
Could  give  the  warrior  kiugs  of  old, 

Victoria,— eince  yonr  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 

Of  him  that  uttered  nothing  base ; 

And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire,  yield  yon  time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme 

If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there ; 

Then — while  a  sweeter  music  wakes. 
And  thro'  wild  March  the  throstle  calls. 
Where  all  about  your  palace-walls 

The  sunlit  almond-blossom  shakes — 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song ; 
For  tho'  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 
In  vacant  chambers,  I  could  trust 

Your  kindness.    May  you  rule  us  long, 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 
As  noble  till  the  latest  day  I 
May  children  of  our  children  say, 

"She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good; 

"Her  court  was  pure;  her  life  serene; 

God  gave  her  peace  ;  her  land  reposed ; 

A  thousand  claims  to  reverence  closed 
In  her  as  Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen ; 

"And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 
Who  knew  the  seasons,  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 
The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet 

"  By  shaping  some  august  decree. 
Which  kept  her  throne  unshaken  still. 
Broad  based  upon  her  people's  will, 

And  compassed  by  the  Inviolate  sea." 
Mabob,  1861. 


CLARIBEL. 

A    MELODY. 
1. 

Wimx  Claribel  low-Iieth 
The  breezes  panse  and  die. 
Letting  the  roae-leaves  fall : 
Bat  the  solemn  oak-tree  aighetb. 


Thick-leaved,  ambrosial, 
With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony, 
Where  Claribel  low-lleth. 


At  eve  the  beetle  boometta 
Athwart  the  thicket  lone: 

At  noon  the  wild  bee  hummeth 
About  the  moss'd  headstone: 

At  midnight  the  moon  cometh. 
And  looketh  down  alone. 


Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth, 
The  clear-voiced  mavis  dwelleth, 

The  callow  throstle  lispeth. 
The  slumberous  wave  outwelleth, 

The  babbling  runnel  crispeth, 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


LILIAN. 


AiBY,  fairy  Lilian, 

Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 
When  I  ask  her  If  she  love  me. 
Clasps  her  tiny  hands  above  me. 

Laughing  all  she  can  ; 
She'll  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me. 

Cruel  little  Lilian. 

S. 

When  my  passion  seeks 

Pleasance  in  love-sighs 
She,  looking  thro'  and  thro'  me 
Thoroughly  to  undo  me, 

Smiling,  never  speaks: 
So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple, 
From  beneath  her  gather'd  wimple 
Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes. 
Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 

The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks ; 
Then  away  she  flies. 


Prythee  weep,  May  Lilian ! 
Oayety  without  eclipse 

Wearieth  me.  May  Lilian : 
Thro'  my  very  heart  it  tbrilleth 

When  flrom  crimson -threaded  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth: 

Prrthee  weep.  May  Lilian. 


10 


ISABEL.— MARIANA. 


Praying  all  I  can, 
If  prayers  will  not  bush  thee, 

Airy  Lilian, 
Like  a  rose-leaf  I  will  crash  thee, 

Fairy  Lilian- 


ISABEL. 

1. 
EvEB  not  down-dropped  nor  over-bright,  but  fed 
With  the  clear-pointed  flame  of  chastity, 
Clear,  without  heat,  undying,  tended  by 
Pure  vestal  thoughtit  in  the  translucent  fane 
Of  her  still  spirit;  locks  not  wide  dispread. 
Madonna-wise  on  either  side  her  bead  ; 
Sweet  lips  whereon  perpetually  did  reign 
The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity. 
Were  fixed  shadows  of  thy  fixed  mood. 
Revered  Is»l)el,  the  crown  and  bead, 
The  stately  flower  of  female  fortitude, 

Of  perfect  wifehood,  and  pure  lowllbead. 

2. 
The  Intuitive  decision  of  a  bright 
And  thorough-edged  Intellect  to  part 
Error  from  crime  ;  a  prudence  to  withhold ; 
The  laws  of  marriage  character'd  in  gold 
Upon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her  heart ; 
A  love  still  burning  upward,  giving  light 
To  read  those  laws ;  an  accent  very  low 
In  blandishment,  but  a  most  silver  flow 
Of  subtle-paced  counsel  lu  distress, 
Right  to  the  heart  and  brain,  tho'  undeacrled. 
Winning  Its  way  with  extreme  gentleness 
Thro'  all  the  outworks  of  suspicious  pride ; 


A  courage  to  endure  and  to  obey : 
A  bate  of  gossip  parlance  and  of  sway, 
Crown'd  Isabel,  thro'  all  her  placid  life, 
The  queen  of  marriage,  a  most  perfect  wife. 


The  mellowed  reflex  of  a  winter  moon ; 

A  clear  stream  flowing  with  a  muddy  one. 
Till  In  Its  onward  current  It  absorbs 
With  swifter  movement  and  In  purer  light 
The  vexed  eddies  of  its  wayward  brother ; 
A  leaning  and  upbearing  parasite, 
Clothing  the  stem,  which  else  had  fallen  quite. 

With  cluster'd  flower-bells  and  ambrosial  orbs 
Of  rich  fruit-bunches  leaning  on  each  other — 
Shadow  forth  thee ;— the  world  hath  not  another 

(Though  all  her  fairest  forms  are  types  of  thee. 

And  thou  of  God  in  thy  great  charity) 

Of  such  a  flnlsb'd  cbasten'd  purity. 


MARIANA. 

"  Marl*i»  lo  Um  moated  (nag*." 

Jf«««ir«  for  Mtofun. 

With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 

Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all : 

The  rusted  nails  fell  fi-om  the  knots 

That  held  the  peach  to  the  garden-wall. 
The  broken  sheds  look'd  sad  and  strange: 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch; 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "My  life  is  dreary. 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !" 


*  Her  t«iira  feU  with  the  dem  at  even ; 
Her  tean  fell  ere  the  dewt  were  dried." 


TO 


-.—MADELINE. 


n 


Her  tMT*  Ml  with  ths  dewa  at  •tad  t 

Hw  taara  Ml  era  the  de«m  wera  dried : 
She  conid  not  look  on  the  tweet  heaven, 

Either  at  mom  or  eventide. 
After  the  (tilting  of  the  bat«, 
When  thlclceat  dark  did  trance  the  akjr, 
She  drew  her  caaement<urtain  bjr, 
And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 
e^  only  said,  "The  night  ia .dreary, 

He  cometh  not,**  ahe  said ; 
She  aald,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  wera  dead  1" 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night. 

Waking  ahe  heard  the  nighulbwl  crow : 
The  cock  sang  oat  an  hoar  era  light: 

From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen'a  low 
Came  to  her:  without  hope  of  change, 
In  Bleep  she  seemed  to  walk  forlorn, 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed  morn 
About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "The  day  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  8he  said ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  wera  dead!" 

About  a  stone-copt  from  the  wall 

A  slaico  with  blacken'd  wateni  slept, 
And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  email, 
The  cluster'd  marl8h-mofii«e8  crept, 
Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  alwny, 
All  ailver-green  with  gnarled  bark: 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 
The  lerel  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 
She  only  said,  "My  life  is  dteary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  wera  dead  1" 

And  Aver  when  the  moon  was  low. 

And  the  shrill  winds  wera  up  and  awny, 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low. 
And  wild  winds  bound  within  their  cell. 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,  "The  night  is  dreary. 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !" 

All  day  within  the  draamy  house, 

The  doora  upon  their  hinges  creak'd ; 
The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  p.ine;  the  moupe 

Behind  the  mouldering  wainscot  shriek'd. 
Or  fWim  the  crevice  pteered  al>oat. 
Old  faces  glimmered  thro'  the  doors. 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 
Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 
She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary. 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !" 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof. 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 

Her  sense ;  but  most  she  loathed  the  honr 

When  the  thick-moted  sunbeam  lay 

Athwart  the  chambern,  and  the  day 

Waa  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 

Then  said  she,  "  I  am  very  dreary, 

He  will  not  come,"  she  said; 
She  wept,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
O  God,  that  I  wera  dead  1" 


TO 


CLmAB-BRAnim  friend,  whoee  Joyfhl  seom, 
ECdged  with  aharp  laaghter,  cuts  atwAin 
"The  knota  that  tangle  humnn  rrcrdH, 
The  woandlng  corda  that  bind  and  iilra:i] 
The  heart  until  it  bleeds, 
Ray-fHnged  eyelids  of  the  mom 

Roof  not  a  glance  so  keen  aa  thine : 
If  aught  of  prophecy  be  mine. 
Thou  wilt  not  live  in  vain. 

2. 
Low-cowering  shall  the  Sophist  sit ; 

Falseh(H>d  shnll  bare  hor  plnited  brow : 

Fair-fronted  Truth  shiill  droop  not  now 
With  shrilling  shafts  of  subtle  wit. 
Nor  ninrtyr-flames,  nor  tranchant  swords 

Can  do  away  that  ancient  lie; 

A  gentler  death  shall  Falsehood  die, 
Shot  thro'  and  thru'  with  cuuning  words. 

8. 
Weak  Tmth  a-leaning  on  her  cratch. 
Wan,  wasted  Truth  In  her  utmost  ueedt 
Thy  kindly  intellect  shnll  feed, 
Until  she  be  an  athlete  bold. 
And  weary  with  a  Anger's  touch 
Those  writhed  limbs  of  lightning  speed; 

Like  that  strange  angel  which  of  old, 
Until  the  breaking  of  the  light. 
Wrestled  with  wandering  Israel, 

Past  Tabbok  brook  the  livelong  night, 
And  heaven's  mazed  signs  stood  still 
In  the  dim  tract  of  Peuuel. 


MADELINE. 


Toon  art  not  steeped  in  golden  languors, 
No  tranced  summer  calm  is  thine. 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thro'  light  and  shadow  thou  dost  range, 
Sudden  glances,  sweet  and  strange, 

Delicious  spites  and  darling  angers, 
And  airy  forms  of  flitting  change. 

S. 

Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 
Hevealings  deep  and  clear  are  thine 
Of  wealthy  smiles ;  but  who  may  know 
Whethu  smile  or  frown  be  fleeter? 
WhethCT  smile  or  frown  be  sweeter. 

Who  may  know? 
Frowns  perfect-sweet  along  the  brow 
Light-glooming  over  eyes  divine, 
Like  little  clouds,  sun-fringed,  are  thine. 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thy  smile  and  frown  are  not  aloof 
From  one  another, 
Each  to  each  ia  dearest  brother; 
Hues  of  the  silken  sheeny  woof 
Momently  shot  into  each  other. 
All  the  mystery  is  thine; 
Smiling,  fTowning,  evermore. 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 


A  subtle,  sudden  flame, 
By  veering  passion  fann'd. 

About  thee  breaks  and  dances; 
When  I  would  kiss  thy  hand. 


12 


SONGS.— RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 


The  flush  of  anger'd  shame 

O'erflowa  thy  calmer  glances, 

And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 

A  sudden-curved  frown, 

But  when  I  turn  away. 

Thou,  willing  me  to  stay, 
Wooest  not,  nor  vainly  wranglest; 

But,  looking  fixedly  the  while, 
All  my  bounding  heart  entanglest 
In  a  golden-netted  smile; 

Then  in  madness  and  in  bliss. 

If  my  lips  should  dare  to  kiss 

Thy  taper  fingers  amorously. 

Again  thou  blushest  angerly; 

And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 

A  sudden-curved  frown. 


SONG.— THE  OWL. 
1. 

WuEN  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come. 

And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ^ound, 

And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 

And  the  whirring  Mil  goes  round, 

And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round: 

Alone  and  warming  bis  five  wits. 

The  white  owl  in  the  belft-y  sits. 


When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch. 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  hay. 
And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the  thatch 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay. 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay : 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  witf, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


SECOND  SONG. 

TO  THE  SAME. 


TiiT  tnwhits  are  lull'd  I  wot, 

Thy  tuwhoos  of  yesternight. 
Which  upon  the  dark  afloat. 
So  took  echo  with  delight, 
So  took  echo  with  delight, 
That  her  voice  uutuneful  grown. 
Wears  all  day  a  fainter  tone. 


I  would  mock  thy  chaunt  anew ; 

But  I  cannot  mimic  it; 
Not  a  whit  of  thy  tnwhoo, 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhiC 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit. 
With  a  lengthen'd  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo,  tuwhit,  tuwhit,  tuwhoo-o-o. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN 
NIGHTS. 

WnKN  the  breeze  of  a  joyful  dawn  blew  free 

In  the  silken  sail  of  iufancy, 
The  tide  of  time  flow'd  back  with  me. 

The  forward-flowing  tide  of  time : 
And  many  a  sheeny  summer  morn, 
Adown  the  Tigris  I  was  borne, 
By  Bagdat's  shrines  of  fretted  gold, 
High-walled  gardens  green  and  old; 
True  Mussulman  was  I  and  sworn. 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  thro' 
The  low  and  bloomed  foliage,  drove 
The  fragrant,  glistening  deeps,  and  clove 
The  citron-shadows  in  the  blue: 
By  garden  porches  on  the  brim. 
The  costly  doors  flung  open  wide. 
Gold  glittering  thro'  lamplight  dim. 
And  broider'd  sofas  on  each  side: 
In  sooth  it  was  a  goodly  time. 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid, 

Often,  where  clear-stemm'd  platans  guard 
The  outlet,  did  I  turn  away 
The  boat-head  down  a  broad  canal 
From  the  main  river  sluiced,  where  all 
The  sloping  of  the  moon-lit  sward 
Was  damask-work,  and  deep  inlay 
Of  braided  bl6oms  unmown,  which  crept 
Adown  to  where  the  water  slept. 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

A  motion  fk^m  the  river  won 
Ridged  the  smooth  level,  bearing  on 
My  shallop  thro'  the  star-strown  calm, 
Until  another  night  in  night 
I  enter' d,  from  the  clearer  light, 
Imbower'd  vaults  of  pillar'd  palm. 
Imprisoning  sweets,  which  as  they  clomb 
Heavenward,  were  stay'd  beneath  the  doiuc 
Of  hollow  bonghs. — A  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Still  onward :  and  the  clear  canal 
Is  rounded  to  as  clear  a  lake. 
From  the  green  rivage  many  a  fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical. 
Thro'  little  crystal  arches  low        * 
Down  fi-om  the  central  fonntain's  flow 
Fall'n  silver-chiming,  seem'd  to  shake 
The  sparkling  flints  beneath  the  prow. 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time. 
For  It  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haronn  Alraschid. 

Above  thro'  many  a  bowery  turn 
A  walk  with  vary-color'd  shells 
Wandcr'd  engraiu'd.    On  either  side 
All  round  about  the  fragrant  marge 
From  fluted  vase,  and  brazen  nm 
In  order,  eastern  flowers  large. 
Some  dropping  low  their  crimson  belle 
Half-closed,  and  others  studded  wide 
With  disks  and  tiars,  fed  the  time 
With  odor  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Far  off,  and  where  the  lemon-grove 
In  closest  coverture  upsprang. 
The  living  airs  of  middle  night 
Died  round  the  bulbnl  as  he  su^; 
Not  he:  but  something  which  possess'd 
The  darkness  of  the  world,  delight, 
Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love. 
Ceasing  not,  mingled,  unrepress'd. 
Apart  from  place,  withholding  time. 
But  flattering  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Black  the  garden-Wowers  and  grots 
Slumber'd:  the  solemn  palms  were  ranged 
Above,  unwoo'd  of  summer  wind : 
A  sudden  splendor  from  behind 
Flush'd  all  the  leaves  with  rich  gold-green. 
And,  flowing  rapidly  between 


ODE  TO  MEMORY. 


Ui 


Tbeir  intfmpwM,  eoanterch«ng«d 

Tho  lovel  hike  with  dlamond-plou 

Uf  durk  ni)(l  brt{thL    A  lovely  time, 

For  it  wiui  in  the  i;iildeii  prime 

Of  Kood  Hatouu  Alrascbid. 

Durk-bluc  th«  deep  uphcrc  orcrhead, 
DIatinct  with  vivid  slam  Inlaid, 
Grow  darker  from  that  uiulor-flamo: 
So,  leaping  lightly  fhtm  tlio  boat. 
With  silver  anchor  left  afloat, 
In  ninrvel  wbenru  that  glory  came 
Upon  mc,  as  iu  Hircp  I  sank 
Id  c(K)I  soft  turr  u|><)n  the  bank. 
Entranced  with  that  place  and  time. 
So  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
or  good  Haroan  Alraachid. 

Thence  thro'  the  garden  I  was  drawn— 
A  realm  of  pleasanco,  many  a  mound, 
And  many  a  ahadow-cheqner'd  lawn 
Full  of  the  city's  stilly  sound, 
And  deep  myrrh-thickets  blowing  round 
The  stately  cedar,  tamarisks, 
Thick  rosaries  of  scented  thorn, 
Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obelisks 

Graven  with  emblems  of  tbo  time, 

In  honor  of  the  t^uldcn  prime 
Of  good  Harouu  Alraschid. 

With  dazed  vision  unawares 
From  the  long  alley's  latticed  shade 
Emerged,  I  came  npon  the  great 
Pavilion  of  the  Caliphat. 
Right  to  the  carveu  cedam  doors, 
Flung  inward  over  spangled  floors, 
Broad-based  flighta  of  marble  stairs 
Ran  up  with  golden  balustrade, 
After  the  fashion  of  the  time, 
And  humor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Uaroun  Alraachid. 

The  fourscore  Mrindowa  all  alight 
As  with  the  quintessence  of  flame, 
A  million  taiiers  flaring  bripiht 
From  twisted  silvers  look'd  to  shame 
The  hollow-vaulted  dark,  and  stream'd 
Upon  the  mooned  denies  aloof 
In  inmost  Bagdat,  till  there  seem'd 
Hundreds  of  crescents  on  the  roof 

Of  night  new-risen,  that  marvellous  time. 

To  celebrate  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Then  stole  I  up,  and  trancedly 
Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone. 
Serene  with  argent-lidded  eyes 
Amorous,  and  lashes  like  to  rays 
Of  darkneaa,  and  a  brow  of  pearl 
Tressed  with  redolent  ebony. 
In  many  a  dark  delicious  curl, 
Flowing  beneath  her  rose-hued  zone; 
The  sweetest  lady  of  the  time. 
Well  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Six  coltnnns,  three  on  either  side. 

Pare  silver,  underpropt  a  rich 

Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  which 

Down-droop'd  in  many  a  floating  fold,       i 

Engarlanded  and  diaper'd 

With  inwrought  flowers,  a  cloth  of  gold. 

Thereon,  his  deep  eye  laughter-stirr'd 

With  merriment  of  kingly  pride. 
Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 
I  saw  him— in  his  golden  prime, 
Thx  Good  Hakodn  Aleasouid! 


ODE  TO  MEMORY. 


Tnor  who  stealest  Are, 

From  the  fountains  of  the  put. 
To  glorify  the  prewent :  oh,  haat*, 

Visit  my  low  dcHiro ! 
Strengthen  mc,  enlighten  met 
I  faint  iu  tliiH  obHcurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


Come  not  as  then  earnest  of  late, 
Flinging  the  gloom  of  yesternight 
On  the  white  day ;  but  robed  iu  soften'd  light 

Uf  orient  state. 
Whilome  thou  camest  wittv  the  morning  mist. 

Even  as  a  maid,  whose  stately  brow 
The  dew-inipearled  winds  of  dawn  have  klsaTd, 

When  she,  as  thou. 
Stays  on  her  floating  lucks  the  lovely  fVvlght 
Of  overflowing  blooms,  and  earliest  shoots 
Of  orient  green,  giving  safe  pledge  of  fhiits, 
Which  iu  wintertide  shall  star 
The  black  earth  with  brilliance  rare. 


Whilome  thoa  camest  with  the  morning  mist, 

And  with  the  evening  cloud. 
Showering  thy  gleaned  wealth  into  my  open  brea.«t, 
(Those  peerless  flowers  which  in  the  rudest  wind 

Never  grow  sere, 
When  rooted  in  the  garden  of  the  mind. 

Because  they  arc  the  earliest  of  the  year). 
Nor  was  the  night  thy  shroud. 
In  sweet  dreams  softer  than  unbroken  rest 
Thoa  ieddest  by  the  hand  thine  infant  Hope. 
The  eddying  of  her  garments  caught  from  thee 
The  light  of  thy  grcut  presence ;  and  the  cope 

Of  the  half-attain'd  futurity. 

Though  deep  not  fathomless. 
Was  cloven  with  the  million  stars  which  tremble 
O'er  the  deep  mind  of  dauntless  infancy. 
Small  thought  was  there  of  life's  distress ; 
For  sure  she  deem'd  no  mist  of  earth  could  dull 
Those  spirit-thrilling  eyes  so  keen  and  beautiful  .- 
Sare  she  was  nigher  to  heaven's  spheres, 
Listening  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimiuble  years. 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me! 

1  faint  iu  this  obscurity. 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


Come  forth  I  charge  thee,  arise, 

Thou  of  the  many  tongues,  the  myriad  eyes '. 

Thoa  comest  not  with  shows  of  flaunting  vines 

Unto  mine  inner  eye, 

Divlnest  Memory  1 
Thoa  wert  not  nursed  by  the  waterfall 
Which  ever  sounds  and  shines 

A  pillar  of  white  light  upon  the  wall 
Of  purple  cliflTs,  aloof  descried : 
Come  f^om  the  woods  that  belt  the  gray  hillside. 
The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  foar 
That  stand  beside  my  father's  door. 
And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 
To  purl  o'er  matted  cress  and  ribbed  sand, 
Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rashy  coves, 
Drawing  into  his  narrow  earthen  um, 

In  every  elbow  and  turn, 
The  flltcr'd  tribute  of  the  rough  woodland. 

O :  hither  lead  thy  feet  I 
Pour  round  mine  ears  the  livelong  bleat 
Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled  folds, 

Upon  the  ridged  wolds. 


14 


SONG.— ADELINE. 


When  the  first  matin-Bong  hath  waken'd  loud 

Over  the  dark  dewy  earth  forlorn, 

What  time  the  amber  moru 

Forth  gushes  from  beneath  a  low-hung  cloud. 

5. 
Large  dowries  doth  the  raptured  eye 
To  the  young  spirit  present 
When  first  she  is  wed; 

And  like  a  bride  of  old 
In  triumph  led, 

With  music  and  sweet  showers 
Of  festal  flowers, 
Unto  the  dwelling  she  must  sway. 
Well  hajBt  thou  done,  great  artist  Memory, 
In  setting  round  thy  first  experiment 
With  royal  frame-work  of  wrought  gold  : 
Needs  must  thou  dearly  16ve  thy  first  essay. 
And  foremost  in  thy  various  gallery 
Place  it,  where  sweetest  sunlight  fells 
Upon  the  storied  walls ; 
For  the  discovery 
And  newness  of  thine  art  so  pleased  thee. 
That  all  which  thou  hast  drawn  of  fairest 

Or  boldest  since,  but  lightly  weighs 
With  thee  unto  the  love  thou  bearest 
The  first-born  of  thy  genius.    Artiiit-like, 
Ever  retiring  thou  dost  Raze 
On  the  prime  labor  of  thine  early  dayB: 
No  matter  what  the  sketch  might  be; 
Whether  the  high  field  on  the  bushleas  Pike, 
Or  even  a  sand-built  ridge 
Of  heaped  hills  that  mound  the  eeo, 
Overblown  with  murmurs  harsh, 
Or  even  a  lowly  cottage  whence  we  nee 
Strctch'd  wide  and  wild  the  waate  enormona  marsli. 
Where  from  the  frequent  bridge, 
Like  emblems  of  infinity. 
The  trenched  waters  run  flrom  sky  to  sky ; 
Or  a  garden  bower'd  close 
With  pl4ited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose. 
Long  alleys  falling  down  to  twilight  grots, 
Or  opening  upon  level  plots 
Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 
Purple-spiked  lavender; 
Whither  In  after  life  retired 
From  brawling  storms. 
Prom  weary  wind. 
With  youthful  fancy  relnsplred. 
Wo  may  hold  converse  with  all  forms 
Of  the  many-sided  mind, 
And  those  whom  passion  hath  not  bliuded, 
Subtle-thoughted,  myriad-mluded. 
My  friend,  with  you  to  live  alone, 
Wehe  how  much  better  than  to  own 
A  crown,  a  sceptre,  and  a  throne  l 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me ! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity. 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


SONG. 


A  SPIRIT  haunts  the  year's  last  hoars 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers: 

To  himself  he  talks ; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly. 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and  sigh 

In  the  walks; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy  stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers: 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  I'  the  earth  so  chilly; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock. 

Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


The  air  is  damp,  and  hush'd,  and  close. 

As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  taketh  repose 

An  hour  before  death; 
My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole  soul  grieves 
At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting  leaves. 

And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  beneath. 
And  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  I'  the  earth  so  chilly, 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock. 

Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


ADELINE. 


HtsTEKv  of  mysteries. 

Faintly  smiling  Adeline, 
Scarce  of  earth  nor  all  divine, 
Nor'  unhappy,  nor  at  rest. 
But  beyond  expression  fair 
With  thy  floating'  flaxen  hair; 
Thy  rose-lips  and  full  blue  eyes 

Take  the  heart  from  out  my  breasU 
Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine. 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  f 


Whence  that  aery  bloom  of  thine. 

Like  a  lily  which  the  son 
Looks  thro'  in  his  sad  decline. 

And  a  rose-bush  leans  upon. 
Thou  that  faintly  smllest  still, 

As  a  Naiad  in  a  well. 

Looking  at  the  set  of  day. 
Or  a  phantom  two  hours  old 

Of  a  maiden  past  away. 
Ere  the  placid  lips  be  coldT 
Wherefore  those  faint  smiles  of  tblnc. 

Spiritual  Adeline  r 

8. 
What  hope  or  fear  or  Joy  is  thine? 
Who  Ulketh  with  thee,  Adeline? 
For  sure  thou  art  not  all  alone: 

Do  beating  hearts  of  salient  springs 
Keep  measure  with  thine  own? 
Hast  thou  heard  the  butterflies 
What  they  say  betwixt  their  wings? 
Or  in  stillest  evenings 
With  what  voice  the  violet  woos 
To  his  heart  the  silver  dews? 
Or  when  little  airs  arise. 
How  the  merry  bluebell  rings 
To  the  mosses  underneath? 
Hast  thou  look'd  upon  the  breath 
Of  the  lilies  at  sunrise? 
Wherefore  that  faint  smile  of  thine. 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline? 


Some  honey-converse  feeds  thy  mind, 
Some  spirit  of  a  crimson  rose 
In  love  with  thee  forgets  to  close 
His  curtains,  wasting  odorous  sighs 
All  night  long  on  darkness  blind. 
What  aileth  thee?  whom  waitest  thou 
With  thv  soften'd,  shadow'd  brow, 

And  those  dew-lit  eyes  of  thine, 
Thou  faint  smiler,  Adeline? 


Lovest  thou  the  doleful  wind 

When  thon  gazest  at  the  skies? 


A  CHARACTER— THE  POET.— THE  POETS  MIND. 


Doth  the  low-toogMd  Orimit 
Wituder  from  the  aide  of  the  nora, 
Dripping  with  Sabmm  tplce 
On  tby  pillow,  lowly  b«iil 

Willi  uicUhIIuuii  sir*  luvelorn, 
BrvuthliiK  LIkIiI  aiiiiluNt  thy  (koe, 
Wbllo  his  locks  a-dr«>ppin^  twined 
Koaiid  thy  neck  in  xiibtle  ring 
Make  a  carcanet  of  ray», 
And  ye  talk  together  Rtlll, 
In  the  language  wherewith  Sprint; 
Letter*  cowslip*  on  the  hill? 
Uence  that  look  and  smile  of  tbiue, 
Spiritoal  Adeline. 


A  CHARACTER. 

W'lTu  a  half-glance  npon  the  sky 
At  night  he  said,  "The  wandering* 
Of  this  most  intricate  Universe 
Teach  me  the  nothingness  of  things." 
Yet  could  not  all  creation  pierce 
Beyond  the  bottom  of  his  eye. 

He  spake  of  beaaty :  that  the  dall 

Haw  no  divinity  In  grass. 

Life  in  dead  stones,  or  spirit  in  air ; 

Then  looking  as  't  were  in  a  gltt^s, 

He  smooth'd  bis  chin  and  eleek'd  his  hair. 

And  said  the  earth  was  beautifUL 

He  spake  of  virtue :  not  the  gods 
More  purely,  wbeu  they  wish  to  charm 
Pallas  and  Juno  sittiu);  by: 
And  with  a  sweeping  Of  the  arm. 
And  a  lack-lustre  dead-blue  eye, 
Devolved  his  rounded  periods. 

Most  delicately  honr  by  hour 
Ue  canvassed  human  mysteries. 
And  trod  on  silk,  as  if  the  winds 
Blew  bis  own  praiees  in  hU  eye», 
And  stood  aloof  fk-om  other  minds 
In  impotence  of  fancied  power. 

With  lips  depressed  as  he  were  meek. 
Himself  unto  himself  he  sold: 
Upon  himself  himself  did  feed: 
Quiet,  dispassionate,  and  cold, 
And  other  than  his  form  of  creed. 
With  chisell'd  features  clear  and  sleek. 


THE  POET. 

Thk  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  bom, 

With  golden  stars  above; 
Dower'd  with  the  hate  of  bate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 
The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  thro'  life  and  death,  thro'  good  and  ill 

He  saw  tbro'  bis  own  sonl. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will, 
An  open  scroll. 

Before  him  lay:  with  echoing  feet  he  threaded 

The  secrete^t  walks  of  fame : 
The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts  were  headed 
And  wing'd  with  flame. 

Like  Indian  reeds  blown  fWim  his  silver  tongne. 

And  of  so  fierce  a  flight. 
From  Caipe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung, 
Filling  with  light 


And  Tagrant  melndtes  the  wlndl  which  bore 

Them  earthward  till  they  lit: 
Then,  like  the  arrownwed*  of  the  Held  flower, 
The  friiltftil  wit 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  springing  forth  anew, 

Where'er  they  fofl,  behold. 
Like  to  the  mother  plant  In  semblance,  grew 
A  flower  all  gold, 

And  bravely  (hmlsh'd  all  abroad  to  fling 

The  win);ed  shafts  of  truth. 
To  throng  with  atately  blooms  the  breathing  spring 
Of  Hopo^nd  Youth. 

So  many  mind*  did  gird  their  orbs  with  beams, 

Tho'  one  did  fling  the  Ore. 
Heaven  flow'd  u|>on  the  soul  in  many  dreams 
or  high  desire. 

Thns  truth  was  mnltiplied  on  truth,  the  world 

Like  one  great  garden  show'd, 
And  thro'  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark  upcurl'd, 
Rare  sunrise  flow'd. 

And  Freedom  rear'd  in  that  augnst  sunrise 

Her  lienutiful  bold  brow, 
When  ritoH  and  forms  before  bis  bnmlng  eyes 
Melted  like  snow. 

There  was  no  blood  npon  her  maiden  robes 

Sunn'd  by  those  orient  skies: 
But  round  about  the  circles  of  the  globes 
Of  her  keen  eyes 

And  in  her  raiment's  hem  was  traced  in  flame 

WisnoM,  a  name  to  shake 
All  evil  dreams  of  power — a  sacred  name. 
And  when  she  spake. 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they  ran, 

And  as  the  lightuing  to  the  thunder 
Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of  man. 
Making  earth  wonder. 

So  was  their  meaning  to  her  words.    No  sword 

Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl'd, 
But  one  poor  poet's  scroll,  and  with  his  word 
4       She  shook  the  world. 


THE  POETS  MIND. 


Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind 

With  thy  shallow  wit : 
Vex  not  thon  the  poet's  mind ; 

For  thou  canst  not  fathom  it. 
Cle^  and  bright  it  should  be  ever, 
Flowing  like  a  crystal  river ; 
Bright  as  light,  and  clear  as  wind. 


Dark-brow'd  sophist,  come  not  anear; 

All  the  place  is  holy  ground ; 
Hollow  smile  and  frozen  sneer 

Come  not  here. 
Holy  water  will  I  pour 
Into  every  spicy  flower 
Of  the  laarel-sbrnbs  that  hedge  It  around. 
The  flowers  would  faint  at  your  cruel  cbeer. 
In  your  eye  there  is  death, 
There  is  frost  in  your  breath 
Which  would  blight  the  planto. 
Where  you  stand  yon  cannot  hear 
From  the  groves  within 
The  wild-bird's  din. 


16 


THE  SEA-FAIRIES.— THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 


In  the  heart  of  the  garden  the  merry  bird  chants, 
It  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  you  came  in. 

In  the  middle  leaps  a  fountain 
Like  sheet  lightning, 
Ever  brightening 

With  a  low  melodious  thunder; 
All  day  and  all  night  it  is  ever  drawn 

Prom  the  brain  of  the  purple  mountain 

Which  stands  in  the  distance  yonder: 
It  springs  on  a  level  of  bowery  lawn, 
And  the  mountain  draws  it  from  Heaven  above, 
And  it  sings  a  song  of  undying  love; 
And  yet,  tho'  its  voice  be  so  clear  and  full, 
You  never  would  hear  it ;  your  ears^re  so  dull ; 
So  keep  where  you  are :  you  are  foul  with  sin ; 
It  would  shrink  to  the  earth  if  you  came  in. 


THE  SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slow  sail'd  the  weary  mariners  and  saw. 
Betwixt  the  green  brink  and  the  running  foam, 
Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms  prest 
To  little  harps  of  gold ;  and  while  they  mused. 
Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear. 
Shrill  music  reach'd  them  on  the  middle  sea. 

Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither  away  1"  fly  no 

more. 
Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field,  and  the 

happy  blossoming  shore? 
Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  fuunt&in  calls; 
Down  shower  the  gambolling  waterfalls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea: 
Out  of  the  live-green  heart  of  the  dells 
They  fi^shen  the  silvery-crimson  shells. 
And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover-hill  swells 
High  over  the  full-toned  sea: 
O  hither,  come  hither  and  furl  your  Balls, 
Come  hither  to  me  and  to  mo : 
Hither,  come  hither  and  frolic  and  play ; 
Here  it  is  only  the  mew  that  wails; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day : 
Mariner,  mariner,  f^l  your  sails, 


For  here  are  the  blissful  downs  and  dales, 
And  merrily  merrily  carol  the  gales, 
And  the  epaugle  dances  in  bight  and  bay. 
And  the  rainbow  forms  and  flies  on  the  land 
Over  the  islands  free; 

And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of  the  sand ; 
Hither,  come  hither  and  see ; 
And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poising  wave. 
And  sweet  is  the  color  of  cove  and  cave. 
And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be: 
O  hither,  come  hither,  and  be  our  lords. 
For  merry  brides  are  we: 

We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak  sweet  words : 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  jubilee : 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the  golden  chords 
Runs  up  the  ridged  sea. 
Who  can  light  on  as  happy  a  shore 
All  the  world  o'er,  all  the  world  o'er? 
Whither  awayf   listen  and  stay:   mariner,  mariner, 
fly  no  more. 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 


Lav  and  Thought  have  gon«  away 
Side  by  side, 
Learing  door  and  windows  wide: 
CareleM  tenants  theyt 


All  within  is  dark  as  night: 
In  the  windows  is  no  light; 
And  no  mnrmnr  at  the  door, 
So  frequent  on  it«  -hinge  before. 


Cloae  the  door,  the  sbnttera  close, 
Or  thro'  the  windows  we  shall 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 

Of  the  dark  deiierted  house. 


'  Life  tad  Thougfat  have  gone  away 
Side  b;  ridt." 


THE  DYING  SWAN.— A  DIRGE.— LOVE  AND  DEATH. 


17 


CotM  away:  no  more  of  mirth 
It  here  or  morry-makln^  donnd. 

The  hooM  waa  bulUlcd  of  the  curtb, 
And  shall  flill  again  to  gruuud. 


Com«  away:  for  Life  and  Thoaght 
Her«  no. longer  dwell; 
But  in  a  city  gloriuas— 
A  groat  and  dintaiit  city— hare  bought 
A  mansion  incurni|itiblo. 
Would  they  could  hare  stayed  with  as  I 


THE  DYING  SWAN. 


Tna  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare, 

Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air. 
Which  had  baitt  up  everywhere 

An  nnder-roof  of  doiefhl  gray. 
With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 
Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan. 
And  loudly  did  lament. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 
Brer  the  weary  wind  went  on. 

And  took  the  reed-tope  as  it  went 

9. 

Some  bine  peaks  in  the  distance  roee, 
And  white  Sf^inst  the  cold-white  aky, 
Shone  ont  their  crowning  snows. 

One  willow  over  the  river  wept. 
And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  sigh ; 
Above  in  the  wind  was  tbo  swallow, 
Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will, 
And  Ihr  thro'  the  marish  green  and  stiU 

The  tangled  water-courses  slept. 
Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green,  and  yellow. 


The  wild  swan's  death-hymn  took  the  soul 

Of  that  waste  place  with  Joy 

Hidden  in  sorrow:  at  flrnt  to  the  ear 

The  warble  was  low,  and  full  and  clear; 

And  floating  about  the  under-sky, 

Prevailing  in  weakness,  the  coronach  stole; 

Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anear, 

But  anon  her  awful.  Jubilant  voice, 

With  a  music  strange  and  manifold, 

Flow'd  forth  on  a  carol  tree  and  bold; 

As  when  a  mighty  people  rejoice, 

With  shawms,  and  with  cymbals,  and  harps  of  gold, 

And  the  tumult  of  their  acclaim  is  roll'd 

Thro'  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar, 

To  the  shepherd  who  watcbetb  the  evening  star. 

And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clambering  weeds, 

And  the  willow-branches  hoar  and  dank. 

And  the  wavy  swell  of  the  soughing  reeds. 

And  the  wave-worn  horns  of  the  echoing  bank. 

And  the  silvery  marish-flowers  that  throng 

The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among, 

Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song. 


A  DIRGE. 

1. 
Now  is  done  thy  long  day's  work ; 
Fold  thy  palms  across  thy  breaft. 
Fold  thine  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 
Let  them  rave. 
2 


Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Swreep  the  green  that  folds  thy  gtvn. 
Lst  them  rare. 


Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander; 
Nothing  bnt  the  small  cold  worm 
Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Ia'I  them  rare. 
Light  and  shadow  erer  wander 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rare. 

S. 
Thou  wilt  not  turn  upon  thy  Aed ; 
Chanteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  calumny  t 

Let  them  rave. 
Thou  wilt  never  raltte  thine  head 
From  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rare. 


Crocodiles  wept  tears  for  thee; 

The  woodbine  and  eglatere 

Drip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor's  tear. 

Let  them  rare. 
Rain  makes  music  In  the  tree 
O'er  the  greeu  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

5. 
Round  thee  blow,  self-pleached  deep, 
Bramble-roses,  faint  and  pale, 
And  long  purples  of  the  dale. 

Let  them  rave. 
These  in  every  shower  creep 
Thro'  the  green  that  Colds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine; 
The  frail  bluebell  pcereth  over 
Rare  broidry  of  the  purple  clover. 

Let  them  rave. 
Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thine, 
As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

T. 
Wild  words  wander  here  and  there; 
God's  great  gift  of  speech  abused 
Makes  thy  memory  confused: 

But  let  them  rave. 
The  balm-cricket  carols  clear 
In  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


LOVE  AND  DEATH.  • 

What  time  the  mighty  moon  was  gathering  light 

Love  paced  the  thymy  plots  of  Paradise,  * 

And  all  about  him  roll'd  his  lustrous  eyes; 

When,  turning  round  a  cassia,  fhll  in  view 

Death,  walking  all  alone  beneath  a  yew, 

And  talking  to  himself,  flrst  met  his  sight : 

"  You  must  begone,"  said  Death,  •'  these  walks  are 

mine." 
Love  wept  and  spread  his  sheeny  vans  for  flight; 
Yet  ere  he  parted  said,  "  This  hour  is  thine : 
Thon  art  the  shadow  of  life,  and  as  the  tree 
Stands  in  the  snn  and  shadows  all  beneath, 
So  in  the  light  of  great  eternity 
Life  eminent  creates  the  shade  of  death ; 
The  shadow  passeth  when  the  tree  shall  fitll, 
Bnt  I  shall  reign  forever  orer  all." 


18 


THE  BALLAD  OP  ORIANA.— CIRCUMSTANCE.— THE  MERMAN. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ORIANA. 

Mv  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 

Oriana. 
There  is  uo  rest  for  me  below, 

Oriana. 
WTien  the  long  dun  wolds  are  ribb'd  with  snow, 
And  loud  the  Norland  whirlwinds  blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone  I  wander  to  and  fro, 

Oriaua. 

Ere  the  light  on  dark  was  growing, 

Oriana, 
At  midnight  ibe  cock  was  crowing, 

Oriana : 
Winds  were  blowing,  waters  flowing. 
We  beard  the  steeds  to  battle  going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud  the  hollow  bugle  blowing, 

Oriaua. 

In  the  yew-wood  black  as  night, 

Oriana, 
Ere  I  rode  Into  the  fight, 

Oriana, 
While  blissful  tears  blinded  my  sight 
By  star-shine  and  by  moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I  to  thee  my  troth  did  plight, 

Oriana. 

She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana : 
She  watch'd  my  crest  among  them  all, 

Oriana : 
She  saw  me  light,  she  heard  me  call, 
When  forth  there  stept  a  foemau  tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall, 

Oriaua. 

The  bitter  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 
The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 
.  The  damned  arrow  glanced  aside. 
And  pierced  thy  heart,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana! 
Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana  I 

Oh  I  narrow,  narrow  was  tne  space, 

Oriana. 
Loud,  loud  rung  out  the  bugle's  brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh!  deathfiil  stabs  were  dealt  apace. 
The  battle  deepen'd  in  its  place, 

Oriana ; 
Bat  I  was  down  upon  my  face, 
^  Oriana. 

They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I  lay, 

,  Oriana ! 

How  could  I  rise  and  come  away, 

Oriana  T 
How  could  1  look  upon  the  day  ? 
They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana — 
They  should  have  trod  me  into  clay, 

Oriaua. 

O  breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 

Oriana ! 
O  pale,  pale  face  so  sweet  and  meek, 

Oriana ! 
Thou  smilest,  but  thou  dost  not  speak. 
And  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek, 

Oriana : 


What  wautest  thou  ?  whom  dost  thou  seek, 
Oriana  t 

I  cry  aloud :  none  hear  my  cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou  comest  atween  me  and  the  skies, 

Oriaua. 
I  feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise 
Up  from  my  heart  unto  my  eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within  thy  heart  my  arrow  lies, 

Oriana. 

O  corsed  hand !  O  cursed  blow ! 
Oriana ! 

0  happy  thou  that  liest  low, 

Oriana ! 
All  night  the  silence  seems  to  flow 
Beside  me  in  ray  utter  woe, 

Oriana. 
A  weary,  weary  way  I  go, 

Oriana. 

When  Norland  winds  pipe  down  the  sea, 
Oriana, 

1  walk,  I  dare  not  think  of  thee, 

Oriana. 
TboQ  liest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
I  dare  not  die  and  come  to  thee, 

Oriana. 
I  hew  the  roaring  of  the  aea, 

Oriana. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two  children  In  two  neighbor  vilUges 
Playing  mad  pranks  along  the  healthy  leas ; 
Two  strangers  meeting  at  a  festival  i 
Two  loTers  whispering  by  an  orchard  wall ; 
Two  llTes  boand  bat  In  one  with  golden  ease ; 
Two  graves  grass-green  beside  a  gray  church-tower, 
Wasb'd  with  still  rains  and  daisy-blossomed; 
Two  children  in  one  hamlet  born  and  bred : 
So  nins  the  round  of  life.ft-om  hour  to  hour. 


THE  MERMAN. 

1. 
Who  would  be 
A  merman  bold. 
Sitting  alone. 
Singing  alone 
Under  the  sea. 
With  a  crown  of  gold. 
On  a  throne? 

2. 
I  would  lie  a  merman  bold : 
I  would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  of  the  day ; 
I  would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a  voice  of  power ; 
But  at  night  I  would  roam  abroad  and  play 
With  the  mermaids  iu  and  out  of  the  rocks. 
Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white  sea-flower: 
And  holding  thera  back  by  their  flowing  locks 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea. 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd  me 

Laughingly,  laughingly ; 
And  then  we  would  wander  away,  away 
To  the  pale-green  sea-groves  straight  and  high, 
Chasing  each  other  merrily. 

3. 

There  would  be  neither  moon  nor  star ; 
But  the  wave  would  make  music  above  us  afar- 
Low  thunder  and  light  in  the  magic  night— 
Neither  moon  nor  star. 


THE  MERBIAID.— SONNET  TO  J.  M.  K.— THE  LADY  OF  8UAL0TT. 


19 


We  wonld  call  aloud  lu  the  drcaniy  delU, 
Call  to  «ach  othor  aud  whoop  and  crj 

All  nii;ht,  nirrrlly,  merrily ; 
Thpy  would  |x>lt  tnu  with  starry  tpanglM  and  ahellf, 
LaoghiDK  aiul  cUppint;  their  handa  between, 

All  ulKht,  merrily,  merrily: 
nut  I  would  throw  to  them  back  lu  mine 
I  :  KiH  and  agate  aud  almoudiue: 

loaptng  oat  upon  thcnt  unaeen 
1  ;\t>uld  kiaa  them  oflou  uudur  the  •••, 
Aud  klaa  them  again  till  they  kias'd  me 

LauKhlngly,  laughingly. 
Oh  <  what  a  happy  lUb  were  mine 
I'nder  the  hollow-hnng  ocean  green ! 
iMid  are  the  moaa-beda  nnder  the  aea : 
We  woald  liTe  merrily,  merrily. 


THE  MERMAID. 

1. 
Who  wonld  be 
A  mermaid  fair, 
Singing  aloue, 
Combing  her  hair 
Under  the  sea. 
In  a  golden  curl 
With  a  comb  of  pearl, 
On  a  tbruue? 

2. 
I  would  be  a  mermaid  Tair; 
I  would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  of  the  day; 
With  a  comb  of  pearl  I  would  comb  my  hair; 
And  still  as  I  comb'd  I  would  sing  and  say, 
"  Who  is  it  loves  me  T  who  loves  not  me  ?" 
I  wonld  comb  my  hair  till  my  ringlets  would  M\, 
Low  adown,  low  adown, 
From  under  my  starry  sea-bud  crown 

Low  adown  and  aronnd. 
And  I  should  look  like  a  fountain  of  gold 
Springing  alone 
With  a  ehrill  inner  sound. 

Over  the  throne 
In  the  midst  of  the  hall : 
Till  that  great  sea-enakc  nnder  the  sea 
From  his  coiled  sleeps  in  the  central  deeps 
Would  slowly  trail  himself  sevenfold 
Round  the  hall  where  I  sate,  and  look  in  at  the  gate 


With  his  large  calm  eyee  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  all  the  mermen  nnder  the  aea 
Would  Ksel  their  immortality 
Die  in  their  hearts  for  the  love  of  me. 


Bat  at  night  I  wonld  wander  away,  away. 

I  wonld  fling  on  each  Hide  roy  luw«0owlng  lock*, 
And  lightly  vault  fmm  the  throne  and  play 

With  the  mermen  in  aud  out  of  the  rocks ; 
We  would  ruu  to  and  fro,  and  hide  and  seek, 

On  the  broad  sea-wolds  in  the  crimson  shell-, 

Whoae  ailvery  spikea  are  nighest  the  sea. 
But  if  any  came  near  I  would  call,  and  ahriek. 
And  adown  the  steep  like  a  wave  I  wonld  leap 

From  the  diamond-lcdKos  that  Jul  from  the  dells ; 
For  I  would  not  be  kiss'd  by  all  who  would  list. 
Of  the  bold  merry  mermen  under  the  sea ; 
They  would  kuc  mo,  and  woo  nie,  and  flatter  mc, 
In  the  purple  twilightx  under  the  sea; 
But  the  kin^'  of  them  all  would  carry  me^ 
Woo  me,  and  win  mc,  and  marry  me. 
In  the  branching  Jiui|>crH  under  the  sea; 
Then  all  the  dry  pled  ihhidH  that  be 
In  the  hueless  mosses  under  the  sea 
Would  curl  round  my  silver  feel  silently 
All  looking  up  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  if  I  should  carol  aloud,  from  aloft 
All  things  that  are  forked,  and  homed,  and  soft 
Would  lean  out  from  the  hollow  sphere  of  the  sea, 
All  looking  down  for  the  love  of  me. 


SONNET  TO  J.  M.  K, 
Mt  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee— thou  wilt  be 
A  latter  Luther,  and  a  soldier-priest 
To  scare  church-harpies  from  the  master's  feast; 
Our  dusted  velvets  have  much  need  of  thee ; 
Thou  art  no  Sabbath-drawler  of  old  saws, 
Distill'd  from  some  worm-canker'd  homily: 
But  epnrr'd  at  heart  with  flerie«t  energy 
To  embattail  and  to  wall  about  thy  cause 
With  Iron-worded  proof,  hating  to  hark 
The  humming  of  the  drowsy  pulpit-drone 
Half  God's  good  Sabbath,  while  the  worn-out  clerk 
Brow-beats  his  desk  below.    Thou  from  a  throne 
Mounted  in  heaven  wilt  shoot  into  the  dark 
Arrows  of  lightnings.    I  will  stand  and  mark. 


POEMS. 

(Published  1832.) 

IThii  dlrUoB  of  thl*  rolnn*  ww  p«blUh«l  In  th*  wint«r  of  183}.    Soma  oftii*  pocnM  hsr*  btn  comUUnbl;  altorad.    Othr 
«M(4,wkkA,  witk  OM  czMpUoa,  w«n  wriUan  in  ISSS.] 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


PART  I. 


On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  thro*  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-towered  Camelot; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Qazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver. 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 


Thro*  the  wave  that  runs  forever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  CameloL 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four'  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers. 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil'd. 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd 
By  slow  horses:  and  nnhail'd 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sall'd 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot: 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand  ? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  * 


20 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot: 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  ghe&ves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers,  "Tls  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Sbalott" 


PART  II. 

Thebe  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colors  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  corse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not'what  the  curse  may  be. 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  ShalotU 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  jll  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot: 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls. 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls. 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad. 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad. 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Qoea  by  to  tower'd  Camelot; 


upon  DM,'  cried 
rShalotU" 

And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  bine 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two: 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true. 
The  Lady  of  Shalott 

Bat  in  her  web  she  still  deligbta 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  Bights, 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  fhneral,  with  plumes  and  lights. 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot: 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead. 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed; 
"I  am  balf-slck  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott 

PART  III. 
A  BOw-enoT  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves, 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot 
A  redcross  knight  forever  kneeled 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield. 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 

Beside  remote  Shalott 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  ft^e, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

Aa  he  rode  down  to  Camelot : 
And  from  his  blazon'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jeweU'd  6hon«  the  saddle-leather. 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 


21 


The  helmet  and  the  hclinei-nMither 
Burned  like  oue  t)iiriiiii);  flune  togvUier, 

Ae  he  rode  dowu  to  CmmIoC 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night. 
Below  the  starry  clnsters  brlKhi, 
8oBM  bearded  meteor,  trallluK  light, 

Xovea  over  sUU  Shnlott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow'd ; 
On  burulsh'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trodo ; 
From  underneath  his  bclnict  flow'd 
HU  coal<black  curls  ah  on  h«  nnle, 

As  he  rudo  duwu  to  Caniolut. 
From  the  bank  aud  (him  the  rtvor 
He  flashed  Into  the  cryKtal  mirror, 
"Tlrra  llrra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  thro*  the  room. 
She  saw  the  water-Illy  bloom, 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  look'd  dowu  to  Canielot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide: 
The  mirror  crack'd  (him  side  to  side ; 
"The  curse  is  como  upon  me," cried 

The  Lady  of  SbalotU 

PART  IV, 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  strainlnfr, 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 
The  broad  stream  In  his  banks  complaining, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower'd  Camelot; 
Down  she  came  aud  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat, 
Aud  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

Tht  Lady  of  ShalotL 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse- 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance. 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance — 
With  a  glassy  conntenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay ; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away. 

The  Lady  of  Sh^'ott. 

Lying,  robed  In  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right— 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot: 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willow  hills  and  fields  among. 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  monmfhl,  holy , 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
TilF  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly. 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly, 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot; 
For  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-elde. 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott 

Under  tower  and  balcony. 
By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 
A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 
A  corse  between  the  houses  higti. 

Silent  into  Camelot 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came. 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame. 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  bur  name, 

TU  Lady  qf  Shalott. 


Who  la  thl*r  and  what  is  beret 
And  In  thu  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheeri 
And  they  crosa'd  tbemaelvee  for  fear, 

All  the  knighu  at  Camelot : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space: 
Ho  «ald,  "  She  has  a  lovely  (kce : 
Ood  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace. 

The  Lady  of  Sbaloit" 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 

With  one  black  shadow  at  Its  feet, 

The  house  thro'  all  the  level  shines, 
Close-latticed  to  the  brooding  beat 

And  silent  In  its  dusty  vines: 
A  falnt-bluo  ridge  upon  the  right. 
An  empty  river-bed  before, 
And  shallows  on  a  distant  shore. 
In  glaring  sand  and  inlets  bright. 
But  "Ave  Mary,"  made  she  moan, 

And  "  Ave  Mary,"  night  and  mom. 

And  "Ah," she  sang,  "to  be  all  alone. 

To  live  forgotten,  aud  love  forloru." 

She,  as  her  carol  sadder  grew, 

From  brow  and  bosom  slowly  down 
Thro'  rosy  ta|)er  fingers  drew 

Her  atreumiug  curls  of  deepest  brown 
To  left  and  right  and  made  appear, 
StiU-ligbted  in  a  secret  shrlue. 
Her  melancholy  eyes  divine, 
The  home  of  woe  without  a  tear, 
Aud  "  Ave  Mary,"  was  her  moan, 

"Madonna,  sad  Is  night  and  mom;" 

And  "  Ah,"  she  sang,  "  to  be  all  alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn." 

Till  all  the  crimson  changed,  and  past  '' 

Into  deep  orange  o'er  the  sea, 
Low  on  her  knees  herself  she  cast 
Before  Our  Lady  murmur'd  she; 
Complaining,  "  Mother,  give  me  grace 
To  help  me  of  my  weary  load," 
And  on  the  liquid  mirror  glow'd 
The  clear  perfection  of  her  face. 

"  Is  this  the  form,"  she  made  her  moan, 

"That  won  bis  praises  night  and  morn  Y" 
And  "  Ah,"  she  said,  "  but  I  wake  alone, 
I  sleep  forgotten,  I  wake  forlorn." 

Nor  bird  would  sing,  nor  lamb  would  bleat. 

Nor  any  cloud  would  cross  the  vault 
But  day  increased  from  heat  to  heat 

On  stony  drought  and  steaming  salt; 
Till  now  at  noon  she  slept  again. 
And  seem'd  knee-deep  in  mountain  graaa, 
And  heard  her  native  breezes  pass. 
And  runlets  babbling  down  the  glen. 
She  breathed  in  sleep  a  lower  moan. 

And  murmuring,  as  at  night  and  mom. 
She  thought  "My  spirit  is  here  alone. 
Walks  forgotten,  and  is  forlorn." 

Dreaming,  she  knew  it  was  a  dream : 
She  felt  he  was  and  was  not  there. 
She  woke :  the  babble  of  the  stream 
Fell,  and  without  the  steady  glare 
Shrank  one  sick  willow  sere  and  small. 
The  river-bed  was  dusty-white  ; 
And  all  the  fUraace  of  the  light 
Strack  up  against  the  blinding  walL 
She  whlsper'd,  with  a  stifled  moan 

More  inward  than  at  night  or  mora, 
"  Sweet  Mother,  let  me  not  here  alone 
Live  forgotten  and  die  forlorn." 


22 


ELEANORE. 


And,  rising,  from  her  bosom  drew 

Old  letters,  breathing  of  her  worth, 
For  "Love,"  they  said,  "must  needs  be  true. 

To  what  is  loveliest  upon  earth." 
An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door. 
To  look  at  her  with  slight,  and  say, 
"But  now  thy  beauty  flows  away, 
So  be  alone  forevermore." 

"  O  cruel  heart,"  she  changed  her  tone, 
"And  cruel  love,  whose  end  is  scorn, 
Is  this  the  end  to  be  left  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  die  forlorn !" 

But  sometimes  in  the  falling  day 

An  Image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door, 
To  look  into  her  eyes  and  say, 

"  But  thou  Shalt  be  alone  no  more." 
And  flaming  downward  over  all 
From  heat  to  heat  the  day  decreased, 
And  slowly  rounded  to  the  east 
The  one  black  shadow  from  the  wall. 

"The  day  to  night,"  she  made  her  moan, 
"The  day  to  night,  the  night  to  morn, 
And  day  and  night  I  am  left  alone 
To  live  forgotten,  aod  love  forlorn." 

At  eve  a  dry  cicala  sung, 

There  came  a  sound  as  of  the  sea : 
Backward  the  latticed-blind  she  fluug, 

And  lean'd  upon  the  balcony. 
There  all  In  spaces  rosy-bright 
Large  Hesper  glitter'd  on  her  tears, 
And  deepesing  through  the  silent  spheres. 
Heaven  over  Heaven  rose  the  night. 

And  weeping  then  she  made  her  moan, 

"  The  night  comes  on  that  knows  not  mom. 
When  I  shall  cease  to  be  all  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn." 


ELEANORE. 
1. 

TiiY  dark  eyes  open'd  not. 

Nor  first  reveal'd  themselves  to  English  air, 

For  there  Is  nothing  here. 
Which,  from  the  outward  to  the  Inward  brongbt. 
Moulded  thy  baby  thought. 
Far  ofl'  from  human  neighborhood, 

Thou  wert  bom,  on  a  summer  mom, 
A  mile  beneath  the  cedar-wood. 
Thy  bounteous  forehead  was  not  fann'd 

With  breezes  from  our  oaken  glades. 
But  thou  wert  nursed  in  some  delicions  land 

Of  lavish  lights,  and  floating  shades: 
And  flattering  thy  childish  thought 

The  oriental  fairy  brought. 
At  the  moment  of  thy  birth. 
From  old  well-heads  of  haunted  rills. 
And  the  hearts  of  puri)le  hills. 

And  shadow'd  coves  on  a  sunny  shore. 
The  choicest  wealth  of  all  the  earth. 

Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore. 

To  deck  thy  cradle,  Eleanore. 


Or  the  yellow-banded  bees. 
Thro'  half-open  lattices 
Coming  in  the  scented  breeze. 
Fed  thee,  a  child,  lying  alone. 

With  whitest  honey  in  fairy  gardens  cull'd- 
A  glorious  child,  dreaming  alone, 
In  silk-soft  folds,  upon  yielding  down. 
With  the  hum  of  swarming  bees 
Into  dreamful  8luml>er  lull'd. 


3. 
Who  may  minister  to  thee? 
Summer  herself  should  minister 

To  thee,  with  fruitage  golden-rinded 
On  golden  salvers,  or  it  may  be. 
Youngest  Autumn,  in  a  bower 
Grape-thicken'd  from  the  light,  and  blinded 
With  many  a  deep-hued  bell-like  flower 
Of  fragrant  trailers,  when  the  air 
Sleepeth  over  all  the  heaven, 
And  the  crag  that  fronts  the  Even, 
All  along  the  shadowing  shore. 
Crimsons  over  an  inland  mere, 
Eleanore ! 


How  may  fnU-saU'd  verse  express. 
How  may  measured  words  adore 
The  full-flowing  harmony 
Of  thy  swan-like  stateliness, 
Eleanore  T 
The  luxuriant  symmetry 
ot  thy  floating  gracefulness, 
Eleanore  f 
Every  tnrn  and  glance  of  thine, 
Every  lineament  divine, 

Eleftnore, 
And  the  steady  sunset  glow. 
That  stays  upon  thee?    For  in  thee 
Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing  single : 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 

From  one  censer,  in  one  shrine. 
Thought  and  motion  mingle. 
Mingle  ever.    Motions  flow 
To  one  another,  even  as  tho' 
They  were  modulated  so 

To  an  unheard  melody. 
Which  lives  about  thee,  and  a  sweep 

Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 
Drawn  firom  each  other  mellow-deep  i 
Who  may  express  thee,  EleSnore  r 


I  stand  before  thee,  Eleinore ; 

I  see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold, 
Dally  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 
I  muse,  as  In  a  trance,  the  while 

Slowly,  as  fh>m  a  cloud  of  gold. 
Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile. 
I  muse,  as  In  a  trance,  whene'er 

The  langnons  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 
Float  on  to  me.    I  would  I  were 

So  tranced,  so  rapt  in  ecstasies, 
To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore. 
Gazing  on  thee  forevermore. 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore ! 


Sometimes,  with  most  intensity 

Gaziiig,  I  seem  to  see 

Thought  folded  over  thought,  smiling  asleep, 

Slowly  awaken'd,  grow  so  full  and  -deep 

In  thy  large  eyes,  that,  overpower'd  quite, 

I  cannot  veil,  or  droop  my  s-iuht. 

But  am  as  nothing  in  its  light: 

As  tho'  a  star,  in  inmost  heaven  set, 

Ev'n  while  we  gaze  on  it. 

Should  slowly  round  his  orb,  and  slowly  grow 

To  a  full  face,  there  like  a  sun  remain 

Fix'd— then  as  slowly  fade  again, 

And  draw  itself  to  what  it  was  before ; 
So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow, 
Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 

In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Eleanoi-e. 

7. 
As  thnnder-clouds,  that,  hang  on  high, 
Roord  the  world  with  doubt  and  fear. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUOIITEII. 


2.1 


Floating  thro*  >n  airenin);  iitmoapherv, 
Qrow  golden  all  about  the  nky ; 
In  thee  all  paaaiou  IxM-omrii  paninnlaaa, 
Tonch'd  bjr  thy  apirifa  incllownoM, 
Loatng  his  Are  and  active  miRbt 

In  a  ailent  meditation, 
Palling  into  a  attll  di-llRht, 

And  luxury  of  contemplation : 
As  wave*  that  up  a  quiet  oove 
Rolling  Klidc,  and  lying  still 
Shadow  forth  the  baukn  nt  wlllt 
Or  •ometimea  they  nweil  nnd  move, 
Preaetng  np  against  the  land,^ 
With  motions  of  the  outer  sea : 
And  the  self-aame  Influonre 
Controlleth  all  the  houI  aud  ocnso 
Of  Passion  gasin^;  upon  thoc. 
Ills  bow-string  slackcn'd,  InuKuld  Love, 
Leaning  bis  cheek  u|K>n  hlH  hand, 
Droops  both  bis  wlng^  regarding  thee, 
And  so  would  lRn,i;iiish  evermore, 
Serene,  imperial  EleAuure. 

8. 
But  when  I  see  thee  roam,  with  tresses  unconflncd, 
While  the  amorous,  odorous  wind 
Breathes  low  between  the  sunset  and  the  moon : 
Or,  In  a  shadowy  saloon, 
On  silken  curtains  half  reclined ; 

I  watch  thy  grace ;  and  in  Its  place 
My  heart  a  charmed  slumber  keeps, 

While  I  muse  upon  thy  face; 
And  a  languid  fire  creeps 
Thro'  my  veins  to  all  my  ftume, 
Dissolvingly  and  slowly:  soon 

From  thy  rose-red  lips  mv  name 
Floweth :  and  then,  as  in  a  swoon, 
With  dinning  sound  my  ears  are  rife. 
My  tremulous  tongue  faltereth, 
I  lose  my  color,  1  lose  my  breath, 
I  drink  the  cup  of  a  costly  death, 
Brimm'd  with  delirious  drauKhts  of  warmest  life. 
I  die  with  my  delight,  before 
I  hear  what  I  would  hear  fk-om  thee ; 
Yet  tell  my  name  again  to  me, 
I  uottM  be  dying  evermore. 
So  dying  ever,  Eleanore. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 

I  sn  the  wealthy  miller  yet, 

His  double  chin,  his  portly  size. 
And  who  that  knew  him  could  forget 

The  bnsy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes? 
The  slow  wise  smile  that,  round  abont 

His  dusty  forehead  dryly  curl'd, 
Seem'd  half-within  and  half-without. 

And  txill  of  dealings  with  the  world? 

In  yonder  chair  I  see  him  sit, 

Three  fingers  ronnd  the  old  silver  cup- 
I  see  his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 

At  his  own  Jest— gray  eyes  lit  np 
With  summer  lightnings  of  a  soul 

So  fhll  of  summer  warmth,  so  glad, 
So  healthy,  sound,  and  clear  and  whole, 

His  memory-  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 

Yet  All  my  glass:  give  me  one  kiss: 

My  own  sweet  Alice,  we  must  die. 
There's  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 

Shall  be  nnriddled  by-and-by. 
There's  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  life, 

But  more  Is  taken  quite  away. 
Pray,  Alice,  pray,  my  darlini;  wife. 

That  we  may  die  the  self-same  day. 


Have  I  not  found  a  happy  earth  f 

I  least  should  breathe  a  thought  of  pain. 
Would  God  renew  me  (W>m  my  birth 

rd  almost  live  my  life  again. 
So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk. 

And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine- 
It  seems  in  after-dinner  talk 

Across  the  walnuts  and  the  wtoe— 

To  be  the  long  and  listleaa  boy 

Late-left  an  orphan  of  the  squire, 
Where  this  old  numKion  mounted  high 

Looks  down  upon  the  village  spire: 
For  even  here,  where  I  and  you 

Have  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long. 
Each  mom  my  sleep  was  broken  thro* 

By  some  wild  skylark's  matin-song. 

And  oft  I  heard  the  tender  dove 

In  flrry  woodlands  making  moan ; 
But  ere  I  saw  your  eyes,  my  love, 

I  had  no  motion  of  my  owtK 
For  scarce  my  life  with  fancy  play'd 

Before  I  drcam'd  that  pleasant  dream — 
Still  hither  thither  idly  nway'd 

Like  those  long  mosses  in  the  stream. 

Or  fh>m  the4>ridgo  I  lean'd  to  hear 

The  mllldam  rushinK  down  with  noise. 
And  see  the  minnows  everywhere 

In  crystal  eddies  glance  and  poise. 
The  tall  flag-flowers  when  they  sprung 

Below  the  range  of  stepping-stones. 
Or  those  three  chestnuts  near,  that  hung 

In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 

But^AIlce,  what  an  hour  was  that, 

Wnrna  after  roving  in  the  woods 
OTwas  April  then),  I  come  and  sat 

Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their  buds 
Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue; 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 
I  cast  me  down,  nor  thought  of  yon. 

But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 

A  love-song  I  had  somewhere  read. 

An  echo  from  a  measured  strain. 
Beat  time  to  nothing  In  my  head 

From  some  odd  comer  of  the  brain. 
It  haunted  me,  the  momlng  long. 

With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes. 
The  phantom  of  a  silent  song. 

That  went  and  came  a  thousand  times. 

Then  leapt  a  trout    In  lazy  mood 

I  watch'd  the  little  circles  die; 
They  past  into  the  level  flood. 

And  there  a  vision  caught  my  eye; 
The  reflex  of  a  beanteone  form, 

A  glowing  arm,  a  gleaming  neck. 
As  when  a  sunbeam  wavers  warm 

Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck. 

For  yon  remember,  you  had  set. 

That  morning,  on  the  casement's  edge 
A  long  green  box  of  mignonette. 

And  yon  were  leaning  from  the  ledge: 
And  when  I  raised  my  eyes,  above 

They  met  with  two  so  fhll  and  bright- 
Such  eyes !  I  'swear  to  yon,  my  love. 

That  these  have  never  lost  their  light. 

I  loved,  and  love  dispell'd  the  fear 
That  I  should  die  an  early  death ; 

For  love  poesess'd  the  atmosphere. 
And  flll'd  the  breast  with  purer  breath. 

My  mother  thouRbt,  What  ails  the  boy? 
For  I  was  alter'd,  and  began 


24 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


To  move  about  the  honse  with  joy, 
And  with  the  certaiu  step  of  man. 

I  loved  the  brimming  wave  that  ewara 

Thro'  qniet  meadows  round  the  mill, 
The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam, 

The  pool  beneath  it  never  still. 
The  meal-sacks  on  the  whiten'd  floor. 

The  dark  round  of  the  dripping  wheel. 
The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meaL 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold, 

When  April  nights  began  to  blow. 
And  April's  crescent  glimmer'd  cold, 

I  saw  the  village  light*  below; 
I  knew  your  taper  far  away. 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hope, 
From  off  the  wold  I  came,  and  lay 

Upon  the  freshly-flower'd  slope. 

The  dee^  brook  groan'd  beneath  the  mill: 
And  "by  that  lamp,"  I  thought,  "she  sits'." 

The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 
Gleamed  to  the  flying  moon  by  fits. 

"O  that  I  were  beside  her  now! 

0  will  she  answer  if  I  call  f 

0  would  she  give  me  vo\f  fur  vow. 
Sweet  Alice,  If  I  told  her  all  f 

Sometimes  I  saw  yon  sit  and  spin: 

And,  In  the  pauses  of  the  wind. 
Sometimes  I  heard  you  sing  within ; 

Sometimes  your  shadow  cross'd  the  blind. 
At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light, 

And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair 
Flitted  across  into  the  night,     ^ 

And  all  the  casement  darken' Ahere. 

But  when  at  last  I  dared  to  speak, 

The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white  with  May, 
Your  ripe  lips  moved  not,  but  your  cheek 

Fiush'd  like  the  coming  of  the  day ; 
And  BO  it  was— half-sly,  half-shy. 

You  would,  and  would  nut,  little  one  I 
Although  I  pleaded  tenderly. 

And  you  and  I  were  ail  alone. 

And  slowly  was  my  mother  bronght 

To  yield  consent  to  my  desire : 
She  wish'd  me  happy,  but  she  thonght 

1  might  have  louk'd  a  little  higher; 
And  I  was  young— too  young  to  wed: 

"  Yet  must  I  love  her  for  your  sake ; 
Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,"  she  said : 
Her  eyelid  qniver'd  as  she  spake. 

And  down  I  went  to  fetch  my  bride: 

But,  Alice,  you  were  ill  at  ease ; 
This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried. 

Too  fearful  that  you  should  not  please. 

1  loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I  knew  you  could  not  look  but  well; 
And  dews,  that  would  have  fall'n  iu  tears, 
I  kiss'd  away  before  tbey  felL 

I  watch'd  the  little  flntterings. 

The  doubt  my  mother  would  not  see; 
She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things, 

And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me; 
Aud  turning  look'd  upon  your  face. 

As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart. 
And  rose,  and,  with  a  silent  grace 

Approaching,  press'd  you  heart  to  heart. 

Ah,  well— but  «ing  the  foolish  song 
I  gave  yon,  Alice,  on  the  day 


When,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  along, 
A  pensive  pair,  and  you  were  gay 

With  bridal  flowers— that  I  may  seem, 
As  in  the  nights  of  old,  tio  lie 

Beside  the  mill-wheel  in  the  stream. 
While  those  ftall  chestnuts  whisper  by. 


It  is  the  miller's  daughter. 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear. 
That  I  would  be  the  jewel 

That  trembles  at  her  ear: 
For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 
I'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 
Aboat  her  dainty,  dainty  waist, 

Aud  her  heart  would  beat  against  me, 
In  sorrow  aud  in  rest: 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight 

And  I  wonid  be  the  necklace. 
And  all  da;  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom. 
With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs, 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  shoald  be  nnclasp'd  at  night 


A  trifle,  sweet  I  which  true  love  spells — 

True  love  interprets — right  alone. 
Ills  light  upon  the  letter  dwells. 

For  all  the  spirit  is  his  own. 
So,  if  I  waste  words  now.  In  tmth, 

Yoa  most  blame  Love.    His  early  rage 
Had  force  to  make  me  rhyme  in  youth, 

Aud  makes  me  talk  too  much  in  age. 

And  now  those  Tivid  hours  are  gone. 

Like  mine  own  life  to  me  thou  art. 
Where  Past  aud  Present,  wound  in  one, 

Do  make  a  garland  fur  the  heart : 
So  sing  that  other  song  I  made, 

Half-anger'd  writb  my  happy  lot 
The  day,  when  in  the  chestnut-ehade 

I  found  the  blue  Forget-me-not 


Love  tbat  hath  ns  in  the  net. 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget  J 
Many  suns  arise  and  set. 
Many  a  chance  the  years  beget 
Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 
Even  sa 

Love  is  hart  with  Jar  and  I^et. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret 
Eyes  with  Idle  tears  are  wet 
Idle  habit  links  iu  yet 
What  is  love?  for  we  forget: 
Ah,  no  1  no ! 


Look  thro'  mine  eyes  with  thine.    True  wife, 

Rouud  my  tme  heart  thine  arms  eutwine; 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 

Look  thro'  ray  very  sonl  with  thine ! 
Untouch'd  with  any  shade  of  years. 

May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell ! 
They  have  not  shed  a  many  tears. 

Dear  eyes,  since  first  I  knew  them  well. 

Yet  tears  they  shed :  they  had  their  part 

Of  sorrow :  for  when  time  was  ripe, 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 
That  into  stillness  past  again. 

And  left  a  want  unknown  before ; 
Although  the  loss  that  brought  ns  pain, 

That  loss  bat  made  as  love  the  more, 


FATIMA.— <ENONE. 


2S 


With  fkrthw  looklngs  on.   The  kiM, 

Tb«  woTcn  arma,  wMm  bnt  to  be 
Weak  ajnabols  of  the  aauled  bllaa, 

The  comfort,  I  bay*  (bund  In  UiM  i 
Bat  that  Ood  blaaa  thee,  dear— who  wrooKbt 

Two  spirit*  to  on«  oqnal  mind— 
With  bicsatnga  bayond  hu|>c  or  tbongbt. 

With  btoa^nga  which  uo  worda  can  fliid. 

Arlae,  and  let  na  wander  forth, 

To  jou  old  mill  acroaa  the  wolda; 
For  look,  the  saneet,  aoath  and  north, 

Winds  all  the  vale  In  roay  folda, 
And  <lr«8  your  narrow  caaement  Rlaaa, 

Touchlu);  the  rallen  pool  below : 
On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  graaa 

la  dry  and  dewleaa.    Let  na  ga 


FATIMA. 

O  Lovi,  Love,  Love  1  O  withering  might  I 

0  «nn,  that  flrom  thy  noonday  height 
Shiidderest  when  I  strain  my  eight, 
Throbbing  thro'  all  thy  beat  and  light, 

Lo,  falling  from  my  constant  mind, 

Lo,  parch'd  and  wither'd,  deaf  and  blind, 

I  whirl  like  leavea  in  roaring  wind. 

Laat  night  I  wasted  hatcRil  hoars 
Below  the  city's  eastern  towers: 

1  thirsted  fur  the  brooks,  the  showers  : 
I  roll'd  among  the  tender  flowers  * 

I  cru$h'd  them  on  my  breast,  my  mouth : 
I  look'd  athwart  the  baming  drouth 
Of  that  long  desert  to  the  south. 

Last  night,  when  some  one  spoke  his  name, 
From  my  a^ft  blood  that  went  and  came 
A  thousand  little  shafts  of  flame 
Were  shlvcr'd  in  my  narrow  frame. 

0  Love,  O  fire !  once  he  drew 

With  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul  thro' 
My  lips,  as  sanllght  drinketh  dew. 

Before  he  monnta  the  hill,  I  know 
He  cometh  quickly :  from  below 
Sweet  gales,  as  from  deep  gardens,  blow 
Before  him,  striking  on  my  brow. 
In  my  dry  brain  my  spirit  soon, 
Down-deepening  from  swoon  to  swoon. 
Faints  like  a  dazzled  morning  moon. 

The  wind  sounds  like  a  silver  wire. 
And  trom  beyond  the  noun  a  Are 
Is  ponr'd  upon  the  hills,  and  ni^her 
The  skies  stoop  down  in  their  desire; 
And,  isled  in  sadden  seas  of  light. 
My  heart,  pierced  thro'  with  fierce  delight. 
Bursts  into  blossom  in  his  sight. 

My  whole  soul  waiting  silently. 
All  naked  in  a  sultry  sky. 
Droops  blinded  with  his  shining  eye : 
I  will  poaeesa  him  or  will  die. 

1  will  grow  round  him  in  his  place. 
Grow,  live,  die  looking  on  his  face. 
Die,  dying  clasp'd  in  his  embrace. 


(ENONE. 

Thxu  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 

Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  bills. 

The  swimming  vapor  elopes  athwart  the  glen. 

Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  ttom  pine  to  pine. 

And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.    On  either  hand 

The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway  down 


Hang  rich  In  flower*,  and  (kr  below  them  ruara 
The  long  brook  fnlling  thro*  the  duv'n  ravine 
In  cataract  after  caUract  to  the  sea.        ^ 
Behind  the  valley  topmost  Qargarus 
Bunds  up  and  ukea  the  morning:  bnt  In  fhint 
The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 
Troaa  and  Illon's  colomn'd  citadel. 
The  crown  of  Troaa. 

Hither  came  at  noon 
MoumfVil  (Enone,  wandering  forlorn 
Uf  I>aris,  once  her  playmate  on  the  hllto. 
Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round  her  neck 
Floated  her  hair  or  sccm'd  to  float  in  rest. 
She,  leaning  on  a  frnKincut  twined  with  vine, 
Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  the  muuntain-shadc 
8lu|>cd  downward  to  her  seat  In  the  upper  cltC 

"O  mother  Ida,  many-founialn'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
For  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the  hill : 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass: 
The  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the  stone, 
Rests  like  a  shadow,  and  the  cicala  sleeps. 
The  purple  flowers  droop :  the  golden  bee 
Is  llly-cradlcd:  I  alone  awake. 
My  eyes  arc  full  uf  tears,  my  heart  of  love, 
My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes  are  dim. 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

"OJtother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida,       , 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
near  me  O  Earth,  hear  me  O  Hills,  O  Caves 
That  house  the  cold-crowu'd  snake  I    O  mouutain 

brooks, 
I  am  the  daughter  of  a  Blver-Ood, 
Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak,  and  build  up  all 
My  sorrow  with  my  son};,  as  yonder  walls 
Rose  slowly  to  a  muHic  slowly  breathed, 
A  clond  that  gather'd  shape :  for  it  may  be 
That,  while  I  speak  of  it,  a  little  while 
My  heart  may  wander  from  Its  deeper  woe. 

"  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountaln'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
I  waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills. 
Aloft  the  mountain  lawn  was  dcwy-dark. 
And  dewy-dark  aloft  the  mountain  pine: 
Beantifnl  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 
Leading  a  jet-black  goat  white-horn'd,  whito-hooved. 
Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

"  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Far-off  the  torrent  call'd  me  from  the  cleft : 
Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 
The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.    With  down-dropt  eyes 
I  sat  alone:  white-breasted  like  a  star 
Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved :  a  leopard  skin 
Droop'd  from  his  shoulder,  bnt  his  sunny  hair 
Cluster'd  about  his  temples  like  a  Ood'e : 
And  his  cheek  brigbten'd  as  the  foam-bow  brighten 
When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and  all  my  bes' 
Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming  ere  he  car 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
He  smiled,  and  opening  out  his  milk-whit- 
Disclosed  a  fhiit  of  pure  Hesperian  gold- 
That  smelt  ambrosially,  and  while  I  lo^ 
And  listen'd,  the  fall  floMrlng  river  of 
Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

"•Mj 
Beautiful-brow'd  (Enone,  my  own  r 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming 
"  For  the  most  fair,"  would  seem 
As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  al'- 
Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  r 
He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lit. 


2G 


CENONE. 


And  added,  '  This  was  cast  upon  the  board, 
When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of  the  Gods 
Ranged  k»  the  halls  of  Peleus ;  whereupon 
Rose  feud,  with  question  unto  whom  'twere  due : 
But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester-eve. 
Delivering,  that  to  me,  by  common  voice 
Elected  umpire.  Herd  comes  to-day, 
Pallas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  each 
This  meed  of  fairest.    Thou,  within  the  cave 
Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest  pine, 
Mayst  well  behold  them  unbeheld,  unheard 
Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of  Gods.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
It  was  the  deep  mldnoon:  one  silvery  cloud 
Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piny  sides 
Of  this  long  glen.    Then  to  the  bower  they  came, 
Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded  bower. 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocoB  brake  like  Are, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel, 
Lotos  and  lilies:  and  a  wind  arose, 
And  overhead  the  wandering  Ivy  and  vine, 
This  way  and  that.  In  many  a  wild  festoon 
Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro'  and  thro.' 

"O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock  lit. 
And  o'^  him  flow'd  a  golden  cloud,  and  l^td 
Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant  dew.  ^ 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice  of  her,  to  whom 
Coming  thro'  Heaven,  like  a  light  that  grows 
Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the  Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.    She  to  Paris  made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestlon'd,  overflowing  revenue 
Wherewith  to  embellish  sUte,  '  ft-om  many  «  Ttle 
And  rlver-sunder'd  champaign  clothed  with  corn, 
Or  labor'd  mines  undralnable  of  ore. 
Honor,"  she  said,  'and  homage,  tax  and  toll, 
From  many  an  Inland  town  and  haven  large, 
Mast-throng'd  beneath  her  shadowing  citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  towers.' 

«'0  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake  of  power, 
•  Which  in  all  action  Is  the  end  of  all : 
Power  fitted  to  the  season :  wisdom-bred 
And  throned  of  wisdom— from  all  neighbor  crowns 
Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 
Fall  ft'om  the  sceptre-staff.    Such  boon  from  me. 
From  me,  Heaven's  Queen,  Paris,  to  thee  king-born, 
A  shepherd  all  thy  life  but  yet  king-boni. 
Should  come  most  welcome,  seeing  men.  In  power 
Only,  are  llkest  gods,  who  have  attain'd 
Rest  In  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats 
Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss 
'n  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy.* 

">ear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
ased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly  fruit 
'jm's-length,  bo  much  the  thought  of  power 
his  spirit;  but  Pallas  where  she  stood 
Apart,  her  clear  and  bared  limbs 
1  with  the  brazen-headed  spear 
•riy  shoulder  leaning  cold, 
ve,  her  full  and  earnest  eye 
-cold  breast  and  angry  cheek 
Itlng  decision,  made  reply. 

•e,  self-knowledge,  self-control, 
)  lead  life  to  sovereign  power. 
',  (power  of  herself 
I'd  for)  but  to  live  by  law, 
live  by  without  fear; 
is  right,  to  follow  right 
e  scorn  of  consequence.' 


"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Again  she  said:  'I  woo  thee  not  with  gifts. 
Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.    Judge  thou  me  by  what  I  am. 
So  Shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed. 
If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of  fair, 
Unblass'd  by  self-profit,  oh !  rest  thee  sure 
That  I  shall  love  thee  well  and  cleave  to  thee. 
So  that  my  vigor,  wedded  to  thy  blood. 
Shall  strike  within  thy  pulses,  like  a  God's, 
To  push  thee  forward  thro'  a  life  of  shocks. 
Dangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance  grow 
Siuew'd  with  action,  and  the  full-grown  will. 
Circled  thro'  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Commeasnre  perfect  freedom." 

"  Here  she  ceased. 
And  Paris  ponder'd,  and  I  cried,  'O  Paris, 
Give  It  to  Pallas  I'  but  he  beard  me  not, 
Or  bearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  Is  me ! 

"O  mother  IdA,  many-fonntain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful. 
Fresh  as  the  foam,  new-bathed  in  Pnphian  wellf. 
With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward  drew 
From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her  deep  hair 
Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid  throat 
And  shoulder:  from  the  violets  her  light  foot 
Shone  roey-whltc,  and  o'er  her  rounded  form 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine-bunches 
Floated  the  glowing  saullghts,  as  she  moved. 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
She  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild  eyes, 
The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing  nigh 
Half-wbisper'd  in  his  ear,  '  I  promise  thee 
The  (kirest  and  most  loving  wife  in  Greece.* 
She  spoke  and  laughed :  I  shut  my  sight  for  fear : 
But  when  I  look'd,  Paris  bad  raised  his  arm, 
And  I  beheld  great  Herd's  angry  eyes, 
As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  clond, 
And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower; 
And  fW)m  that  time  to  this  I  am  alone, 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die. 

"  Yet,  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Fairest— why  tairest  wlfef  am  I  not  fairr 
My  love  hath  told  me  so  a  thousand  times. 
Methinks  I  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday,  » 

When  I  passed  by,  a  wild  and  wanton  pard. 
Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  playftal  tall 
Cronch'd  fawning  in  the  weed.    Most  loving  is  she  ? 
Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that  my  arms 
Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot  lips  prest 
Close,  close  to  thine  In  that  quick-falling  dew 
Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn  rains 
Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Slmols. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Thev  came,  they  cut  away  my  tallest  pines. 
My  dark  tall  pines,  that  plumed  the  craggy  ledge 
High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  between 
The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cataract 
Foster' d  the  callow  eaglet— from  beneath 
Whose  thick  mysterious  bows  In  the  dark  morn 
The  panther's  roar  came  mufiBed,  while  I  sat 
Low  in  the  valley.    Never,  never  more 
Shall  lone  CEnone  see  the  morning  mist 
Sweep  thro'  them:  never  see  them  overlaid 
With  narrow  moon-lit  slips  of  silver  cloud. 
Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trembling  stars. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  rnin'd  folds. 
Among  the  fragments  tumbled  from  the  glens. 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I  could  meet  with  her, 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came 


THE  SISTERa— TO 


-THE  PALACE  OP  ART. 


27 


Into  tb«  flilr  Palclao  banqnet>hall, 

And  ciut  the  goldeu  n-ait  upon  the  boatti, 

And  bred  this  chaugv;  that  I  niiniit  apeak  my  mind, 

And  tell  her  to  her  (tee  bow  much  I  h«(e 

Uer  preeence,  hated  both  of  Qods  and  men. 

"  O  aother,  hear  me  yet  befbro  I  die. 
Ualh  he  not  awurn  his  love  a  thuuwnd  Itmea, 
In  thia  green  valley,  under  this  green  hUI| 
Bv'n  on  thia  hand,  and  sitting  on  this  stone? 
Seard  it  with  kisses?  water'd  it  with  tears? 
O  happy  tears,  and  how  unlike  to  these  i 
O  hsppy  Heaven,  how  canst  thon  see  my  t\Kt  f 
O  happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear  my  weight  ? 

0  death,  death,  death,  thoo  ever-floating  cloud, 
There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this  earUi, 
Pass  by  the  happy  souK  that  love  to  liVe : 

1  pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of  life. 
And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that  I  may  die. 
Thou  welghest  heavy  on  the  heart  within. 
Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids :  let  me  die. 

"O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
T  will  not  die  slonc,  for  flery  thoughts 
Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more  and  more, 
Whereof  I  catch  the  Issue,  as  I  hear 
Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the  Inmost  hillt>, 
Like  footsteps  npon  wool.    I  dimly  see 
Ify  far-oflr  donbtful  purpose,  as  a  mother 
Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 
Ere  it  Is  bom :  her  child !  a  shudder  comes 
Across  me :  never  child  be  born  of  me, 
Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  hia  father's  eyes ! 

"O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hear  nip,  O  earth.    I  will  not  die  alune, 
Lest  their  shrill  hnppy  laughter  come  to  me 
Walking  the  cold  an(l  st«ri<  -^s  road  of  Death 
Uncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  the  Greek  woman.    I  will  rise  and  go 
Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars  come  forth 
Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she  says 
A  Are  dances  before  her,  and  a  sound 
Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 
What  this  may  be  I  know  not,  but  I  know 
That,  wheresoe'er  I  am  by  night  and  day, 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning  fire." 


THE  SISTERS. 

Ws  were  two  daughters  of  one  race  : 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  face: 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
They  were  together,  and  she  fell ; 
Therefore  revenge  became  me  well. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  1 

She  died :  she  went  to  burning  flame : 
She  mix'd  her  ancient  blood  with  Bhame. 

The  wind  is  howling  in  turret  and  tree. 
Whole  weeks  and  months,  and  early  and  late, 
To  win  his  love  I  lay  in  wait : 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 

I  made  a  feast ;  I  bade  him  come ; 
I  won  his  love,  I  brought  him  home. 

The  wind  is  roaring  in  turret  and  tree. 
And  after  supper,  on  a  bed, 
Upon  my  lap  he  laid  bis  head : 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 

I  kiss'd  his  eyelids  into  rest : 
His  ruddy  cheek  upon  my  breast. 

The  wind  is  raging  in  turret  and  tree. 
I  hated  him  with  the  hate  of  hell. 
But  I  loved  his  beauty  passing  welL 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  seel 


I  rfNW  up  in  the  silent  night : 

I  made  my  dagger  sharp  and  bright 

The  wind  is  raving  in  turret  and  tree. 
As  half-asleep  his  breath  he  drew, 
Three  times  I  stabb'd  him  thro'  and  thro'. 

O  the  Earl  was  fklr  to  see  i 

I  cnri'd  and  comb'd  his  comely  head, 
He  look'd  so  grand  when  he  was  dead. 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
I  wrapt  his  body  in  the  sheet, 
And  laid  him  at  his  mother's  (iset. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  1 


TO 


WITH  TUB   FOLLOWING   POEM. 

I  BKNP  you  here  a  sort  of  allegory, 

(For  you  will  undersUnd  It)  of  a  soul, 

A  sinfhl  soul  possess'd  of  many  gifts, 

A  spacious  garden  full  of  flowering  weeds, 

A  glorious  Devil,  large  in  heart  and  brain. 

That  did  love  Beauty  only,  (Beauty  seen 

In  all  varieties  of  mould  and  mind,) 

And  Knowledge  for  its  beauty ;  or  if  Good, 

Good  only  for  its  beauty,  lieelng  not 

That  Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge  are  three  sisterx 

That  doat  upon  each  other,  fHends  to  man. 

Living  together  under  the  same  roof, 

And  never  can  be  sunder'd  without  tears. 

And  he  that  shuts  Love  out.  In  turn  shall  be 

Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  threshold  lie 

Howling  In  outer  darkness.    Not  for  this 

Was  common  clay  ta'en  trom  the  common  earth, 

Moulded  by  God,  and  temper'd  with  the  tears 

Of  angels  to  the  perfect  shape  of  man. 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 

I  BiTiLT  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house, 

Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell 
I  said,  "  O  Soul,  make  merry  and  carouse, 
Dear  soul,  for  all  is  well." 

A  huge  crag-plat^rm,  smooth  as  bnmish'd  brass, 

I  chose.    The  ranged  ramparts  bright 
From  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 
Suddenly  scaled  the  light. 

Thereon  I  built  it  firm.    Of  ledge  or  shelf 

The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair. 
My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In  her  high  palace  there. 

And  "while  the  world  runs  round  and  round," I  said, 

"  Reign  thou  apart,  a  qniet  king, 
Still  as,  while  Saturn  whirls,  his  steadfast  shade 
Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring." 

To  which  my  soul  made  answer  readily: 

"Trust  me,  in  bliss  I  shall  abide  • 
In  this  great  mansion,  that  is  built  for  me, 
So  royal-rich  and  wide." 


Four  courts  I  made.  East,  West  and  South  and  North, 

In  each  a  squared  lawn,  wherefrom 
The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spouted  forth 
A  flood  of  foimtain-fbam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  there  ran  a  row 

Of  cloisters,  branch'd  like  mighty  woods, 
Echoing  all  night  to  that  sonorous  flow 
Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 


28 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


And  round  the  roofs  a  gilded  gallery 

That  lent  broad  verge  to  diotant  land?, 
Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where  the  sky 
Dipt  down  to  sea  and  sands. 

From  those  four  jets  four  currents  in  one  swell 

Across  the  mountain  stream'd  below 
lu  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they  fell 
Lit  up  a  torrent-bow. 

And  high  on  every  peak  a  statue  seem'd 

To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 
A  cloud  of  incense  of  all  odor  steam'd 
From  out  a  goldfea  cup. 

So  that  she  thought,  "  And  who  shall  gaze  open 

My  palace  with  unbliuded  eyes. 
While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the  suu, 
And  that  sweet  incense  rise  V 

For  that  sweet  incense  rose  and  never  fuil'd. 

And,  while  day  sank  or  mounted  higher, 
The  light  aGrial  gallery,  golden-rall'd, 
Burnt  like  a  fringe  of  fire. 

Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  staln'd  and  traced. 

Would  seem  slow-fluming  crimson  flres 
From  shadow'd  grots  of  arches  interlaced. 
And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires. 


Fall  of  long-Bonndlng  corridors  it  was, 

That  over-vaulted  grateftal  gl(x>m. 
Thro'  which  the  live-long  day  my  soal  did  pass. 
Well-pleased,  firom  room  to  room. 

Full  of  great  rooms  and  small  the  palace  stood. 

All  various,  each  a  perfect  whole 
From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 
And  cbaoge  of  my  still  soul. 

For  some  were  bnng  with  arras  green  and  bine, 

Showing  a  gaudy  smnmer-mom. 
Where  with  pnff'd  cheek  the  belted  banter  blew 
His  wreathed  bugle-horn. 

One  seem'd  nil  dark  and  red,— a  tract  of  sand, 

And  some  one  pacing  there  alone. 
Who  paced  forever  in  a  glimmering  land, 
Lit  with  a  low  large  moon. 

One  show'd  an  iron  coast  and  angry  waves. 

You  seem'd  to  hear  them  climb  and  fall 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellowing  caves, 
Beneath  the  windy  walL 

And  one,  a  fkill-fed  riv6r  winding  slow 

By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain. 
The  ragjred  rims  of  thunder  brooding  low, 
With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 

And  one,  the  feapers  at  their  sultry  toil, 

In  front  they  bound  the  sheaves.    Behind 
Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in  oil. 
And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And  one,  a  foreground  black  with  stones  and  slags, 

Beyond,  a  line  of  heights,  and  higher 
All  barr'd  with  long  white  cloud  the  scomftil  crags, 
And  highest,  snow  and  Are. 

And  one,  an  English  home,— gray  twilight  pour'd 

On  dewy  pasture?,  dewy  trees. 
Softer  than  sleep,— all  things  in  order  stored, 
A  haunt  of  ancient  Peace. 


Nor  these  alone,  but  every  landscape  fair. 

As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind. 
Or  gay,  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stern,  was  there, 
Not  less  than  truth  design'd. 


Or  the  maid-mother  by  a  crucifix. 
In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm. 
Beneath  branch-work  of  costly  sardonyx 
Sat  smlllug,  babe  iii  arm. 

Or  in  a  clear-wall'd  city  on  the  sea. 
Near  gilded  organ-pipes,  her  hair 
Wound  with  white  roses,  slept  St  Cecily, 
An  angel  looked  at  her. 

Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise, 

A  group  of  Ilouris  bow'd  to  see 
The  dying  Islamite,  with  hands  and  eyes 
That  said.  We  wait  for  thee. 

Or  mythic  Uther's  deeply-wonnded  son 
In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Lay,  dozing  In  the  vale  of  Avalon, 
And  watch'd  by  weeping  queens. 

Or  hollowing  one  hand  against  his  ear. 

To  list  a  footfall,  ere  he  saw 
The  wood-nymph,  stay'd  the  Aasonlan  king  to  hear 
Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 

Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail'd. 

And  many  a  tract  of  palm  and  rice. 
The  throne  of  Indian  Cama  slowly  sail'd 
A  summer  fann'd  with  spice. 

Or  sweet  Enropa's  mantle  blew  nnclasp'd. 
From  off  her  shoulder  backward  borne : 
From  one  hand  droop'd  a  crocus:  one  hand  gratp'd 
The  mild  bull's  golden  horn. 

Or  else  flashed  Ganymede,  his  rosy  thigh 

Half-boried  in  the  Eagle's  down. 
Sole  as  a  flying  star  shot  thro'  the  sky 
Above  the  pilUr'd  town. 

Nor  these  alone :  but  every  legend  fair 
Which  the  supreme  Caucasian  mind 
Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was  there. 
Not  less  than  life,  design'd. 


Then  In  the  towers  I  placed  great  bells  that  swung, 

Moved  of  themselves,  with  silver  sound; 
And  with  choice  paintings  of  wise  men  I  hang 
The  royal  dais  round. 

For  there  was  Milton  like  a  seraph  strong. 
Beside  him  Shakespeare  bland  and  mild; 
And  there  the  world-worn  Dante  grasp'd  his  song. 
And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  there  the  Ionian  father  of  the  rest ; 

A  million  wrinkles  ca^^•ed  his  skin; 
A  hundred  winters  snow'd  upon  his  breast. 
From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin. 

Above,  the  fair  hall-celling  stately^^et 

Many  an  arch  high  up  did  lift. 
And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 
With  interchange  of  gift. 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  plann'd 
With  cycles  of  the  human  tale 


THB  PALACB  OP  ART. 


29 


"  A  KTonp  nt  Hoaria  bowtd  to  M* 
Tb«  dying  ItlauiU." 


or  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every  land 
So  wroaght,  they  will  not  fail. 

The  people  here,  a  bea^t  of  burden  slow, 

TolTd  onward,  priclc'd  with  goads  and  stings ; 
Here  playd  a  tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings ; 

Here  rose  an  athlete,  strong  to  break  or  bind 

All  force  in  bonds  that  might  endure. 
And  here  once  more  like  some  sick  man  declin'd. 
And  trusted  any  cure. 

But  over  these  she  trod:  and  those  great  bells 

Began  to  chime.    She  took  her  throne: 
She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  Oriels, 
To  sing  her  songs  alone. 

And  thro'  the  topmost  Oriels'  color'd  flame 

Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below; 
Plato  the  wise,  and  large-brow'd  Vemlam, 
The  first  of  those  who  know. 

And  all  those  names,  that  in  their  motion  were 

Fnll-welling  fountain-heads  of  change. 
Betwixt  the  slender  shafts  were  blazon'd  fair 
In  diverse  raiment  strange: 

Thro'  which  the  lights,  rose,  amber,  emerald,  blue, 

Flnsh'd  in  her  temples  and  her  eyes. 
And  from  her  lips,  as  mom  from  Memnon,  drew 
Rivers  of  melodies. 

No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 

Her  low  preamble  all  alone. 
More  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echo'd  song 
Throb  thro"  the  ribbed  stone ; 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her  feastfhl  mirth, 

Joying  to  feel  herself  alive. 
Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible  earth, 
Lord  of  the  senses  five; 


Communing  with  herself:  "All  these  are  mine. 

And  let  the  world  have  peace  or  wars, 
•Tis  one  to  me."    She— when  yoang  night  divine 
Crown'd  dying  day  with  stars, 

Making  sweet  close  of  his  delictons  toils- 
Lit  light  In  wreaths  and  anadems. 
And  pure  quintessences  of  precious  oils 
In  hollow'd  moons  of  gems, 

To  mimic  heaven ;  and  clapt  her  hands  and  cried 

"I  marvel  if  my  still  delight 
In  this  great  bou)<e  so  royal-rich,  and  wide,- 
Be  flatter'd  to  the  height 

"  O  all  things  fair  to  sate  my  varioas  eyes ! 

0  shapes  and  hnes  that  please  me  well : 

0  silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 

My  Gods,  with  whom  I  dwell  1 

"O  God-like  isolation  which  art  mine, 

1  can  but  connt  thee  perfect  gain. 

What  time  I  watch  the  darkening  droves  of  swine 
That  range  on  yonder  plain. 

"In  filthy  sloughs  they  roll  a  prurient  skin. 
They  graze  and  wallow,  breed  and  sleep ; 
And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in, 
And  drives  them  to  the  deep." 

Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she  prate. 

And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead. 
As  hers  by  right  of  fnll-accomplish'd  Fate ; 
And  at  the  last  she  said: 

"  I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and  deed. 
I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawL 

1  sit  as  God  holdinir  no  form  of  creed. 

But  contemplating  all." 


30 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE. 


Full  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 

FlaBh'd  thro*  her  as  she  sat  alone, 
Yet  not  the  less  held  she  her  solemn  mirth, 
And  intellectual  throne. 

And  so  she  throve  and  prosper'd:  so  three  years 

She  prosper'd :  on  the  fourth  she  fell. 
Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in  his  ear(<, 
Struck  thro'  with  pangs  of  helL 

Lest  she  should  fail  and  perish  utterly, 

God,  before  whom  ever  lie  bare 
The  abysmal  deeps  of  Personality, 
Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she  would  think,  where'er  she  tnm'd  her  sight. 

The  airy  hand  confusiou  wrought, 
W^rote  "Meue,  mene,"  and  divided  qalte 
The  kingdom  of  her  thought 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  solitude 

Fell  on  her,  from  which  mood  was  bom 
Scorn  of  herself;  again,  from  out  that  mood 
Laughter  at  her  self-scorn. 

"  What  I  is  not  this  my  place  of  strength,"  she  said, 

"My  spacious  mansion  built  forjne, 
Whereof  the  strong  fonndatluu-stones  were  laid 
Since  my  first  memory  T" 

But  in  dark  comers  of  her  palace  stood 

Uncertain  shapes;  and  nnawares 
On  white-eyed  phantasms  weeping  tears  of  blood, 
And  horrible  nightmares, 

And  hollow  shades  enclosing  hearts  of  flame, 

And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all. 
On  corpses  tbree*mouths  old  at  noon  she  came. 
That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A  spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without  light 

Or  power  of  movement,  seem'd  my  soul, 
'Mid  ouward-sloplug  motipus  iufluite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal. 

A  still  salt  pool,  lock'd  in  with  bars  of  sand ; 

Left  on  the  shore ;  that  hears  all  night 
The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from  the  land 
Their  moou-led  waters  white. 

A  star  that  with  the  choral  stairy  dance 
Join'd  not,  but  stood,  and  standing  saw 
The  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circumstance 
Roll'd  round  by  one  flx'd  law. 

Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  had  cnrl'd. 
"No  voice,"  she  shriek'd  In  that  lone  hall, 
"No  voice  breaks  thro'  the  stillness  of  this  world: 
One  deep,  deep  silence  all !" 

She,  moulderina:  with  the  dull  earth's  mouldering  sod, 

Inwrapt  tenfold  in  slothful  shame, 
Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 
Lost  to  her  place  and  name ; 

And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally. 

And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair. 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity, 
No  comfort  anywhere; 

Remaining  utterly  confused  with  fears, 
And  ever  worse  with  growing  time. 
And  ever  unrelieved  by  dismal  tears. 
And  all  alone  in  crime: 

Shut  up  as  in  a  crumbling  tomb,  girt  round 

With  blackness  as  a  solid  wall. 
Far  oflf  she  seem'd  to  hear  the  dolly  sound 
Of  human  footsteps  fall. 


As  in  strange  lauds  a  traveller  walking  slow. 

In  doubt  and  great  perplexity, 
A  little  before  moon-rise  hears  the  low 

Moan  of  an  unknown  sea ;  * 

And  knows  not  if  it  be  thunder  or  a  sound 

Of  rocks  thrown  down,  or  one  deep  cry 
Of  great  wild  beasts  ;  then  thinketh,  "  I  have  found 
A  new  land,  but  I  die." 

She  howl'd  aloud,  "I  am  on  fire  within. 

There  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 
What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin. 
And  save  me  lest  I  die?" 

So  when  four  years  were  wholly  finished, 

She  threw  her  royal  robes  away, 
"  Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale,"  she  said, 
"Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray. 

"Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers,  that  are 

So  lightly,  beautifully  built : 
Perchance  I  may  return  with  others  there 
When  ^  have  purged  my  guilt." 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE. 

Lai»v  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown : 
You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 

For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  yoo  smiled,  but  uubcguiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired: 
The  daagbter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 

Yoa  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name, 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine. 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 

A  heart  that  doats  on  truer  charms. 
A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 

Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-amu. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find. 
For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love. 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  Hon  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  In  my  bead. 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have  blown 

Since  I  beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
Oh  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies: 

A  great  enchantress  yon  may  be ; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 

Which  yon  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Wben  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view, 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spake  some  certain  troths  of  yon. 
Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear ; 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 

WTiich  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall : 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door : 

You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to  gall. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


81 


Ydu  held  yoor  oourae  without  remorve, 
To  nuka  htm  traat  hto  modMt  worth, 

Aud,  iMt,  you  flx'd  k  racaut  star*, 
And  Blew  him  with  your  nobis  birth. 

Tnwt  me,  Clara  Ver«  d«  Vere, 

Prom  yon  blu«  heavena  above  na  bent 
The  grand  old  gardener  and  hia  wilto 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Uowe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

Tis  only  uoble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets. 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Vorc  de  Vere : 
You  pine  among  your  ballci  mid  towers : 


The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 
Is  wearied  of  (ho  rolling  hours. 

In  glowing  henlih,  with  t>oandleaa  wealth, 
But  slckcuiiiK  of  a  vat;iic  disease, 

Ton  know  so  ill  tu  deal  with  time. 
You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as  th« 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  Time  be  heavy  ou  your  hands. 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate. 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands? 
Oh!  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read, 

Or  teach  the  orpbau-glrl  to  sew. 
Pray  Heaven  for  a  human  heart. 

And  let  the  fooli»h  yconiau  go. 


Tin:     MAY     QUEKX 


"Yoa  mutt  wak*  u>d 


ou  wrly,  mothar  dtar." 


YoD  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear ; 

Ttvmorrow  'ill  be  the  happie!*t  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year; 

Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the  maddest  merriest  day; 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  Hay,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Qneeu  o*  the  May. 

There's  many  a  black  black  eye,  they  say,  but  none  so  bright  as  mine ; 

There's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there's  Kate  aud  Caroline : 

But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land  they  say. 

So  I'm  to  be  Queen  o*  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

I  sleep  BO  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall  never  wake. 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to  break : 

But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  bnds  and  garlands  gay. 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o*  the  May. 

As  I  came  up  the  valley  whom  think  ye.  should  I  see, 

But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  hazel-tree? 

He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I  gave  him  yesterday,— 

But  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I  was  all  In  white. 
And  I  ran  by  him  without  i<i>eakiug,  like  a  flash  of  lighL 
They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care  not  what  they  say. 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

They  say  he's  dying  all  for  love,  but  that  can  never  be : 

They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother— what  is  that  to  me? 

There's  many  a  bolder  lad  'ill  woo  me  any  summer  day. 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


32  NEW-YEAR'S  EVE. 


Little  EflSe  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green. 

And  you'll  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the  Queen ; 

For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  'ill  come  from  far  away. 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  wov'n  its  wavy  bowers, 
And  by  the  meadow-trepches  blow  the  faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers ; 
And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fire  in  swamps  and  hollows  gray, 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the  meadow-grass, 
And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as  they  pass ; 
There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the  livelong  day, 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still. 

And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill. 

And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill  merrily  glance  and  play. 

Fur  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

So  yon  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year: 
To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest  merriest  day. 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Qaeen  o*  the  May. 


new-year's  eve. 

Ip  you're  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 

For  I  would  see  the  sun  rit<c  upon  the  glad  New-year. 

It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I  shall  ever  see, 

Then  yoa  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  moold  and  think  no  mor«  of  m& 

• 
To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set:  be  set  and  left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my  peace  of  miud ; 
And  the  New-year's  coming  up,  mother,  but  I  shall  never  see 
The  bloasom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  npon  the  tree. 

Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers :  we  bad  a  merry  day ; 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me  Queen  of  May ; 
And  we  danced  about  the  may-pole  and  in  the  hazel  copse, 
Till  Charles's  Wain  came  ont  above  the  tall  white  chimney-topa. 

There's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills ;  the  (h>et  Is  on  the  pane : 
I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again: 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on  high: 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 

The  building  rook  'ill  caw  tipm  the  windy  tall  elm-tree^ 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  a'long  the  fallow  lea. 

And  the  swallow  'ill  come  back  again  with  summer  o'er  the  wave, 

But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering  grave. 


"Last  M  .\  of  flowprs.  we  had  a  merry  day; 

Beneath  the  iiawtn.irn  on  me  green  they  made  m«  Qaeen  of  May." 


CONCLUSION.  :MI 


Upon  Um  oluuiMl-CMement,  and  upon  tliitt  crave  ormtlDe, 
la  th«  Mirly  earl/  morniag  the  ituininor  nun  'ill  i<liliio, 
Before  the  red  cock  erowe  tcom  the  fiann  upon  the  bill, 
When  you  are  wMin  irteep,  mother,  and  all  the  world  la  atill. 

When  the  fluwers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the  waoing  light 
You'll  never  h«o  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at  night ; 
When  fW>ni  the  dry  dark  wold  the  aommer  aira  blow  cool 
On  the  oat-graaa  and  the  sword-graae,  and  the  balmab  in  the  pool 

Ton'lt  bury  nic,  my  mother,  Ju8t  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade, 
And  you'll  come  HoniotinieK  und  see  rae  where  I  sro  lowly  laid. 
I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother,  I  shall  hear  you  when  you  pass. 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant  grass. 

I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you'll  forgive  me  now ; 
You'll  kiss  mo,  my  own  mother,  and  rorgive  me  ere  I  go; 
Nay,  nay,  yon  must  not  weep,  uor  let  your  grief  be  ^lld, 
Yon  should  not  ftret  for  me,  mother,  yon  have  another  child. 

If  I  can  I'll  come  again,  mother,  (i-om  out  my  rc8tiD{;-pli>c« ; 
Tho*  you'll  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall  look  upon  your  face ; 
Tho'  I  cannot  opeak  a  word,  I  uhall  hearken  what  you  say. 
And  be  often,  often  with  yon  when  you  think  I'm  tu  awsy. 

Oood-nlght,  good-night,  when  I  have  said  good-night  forevormore, 
And  yon  see  me  carried  out  trota  tho  threshold  of  the  door; 
Don't  let  Bflle  come  to  see  mo  till  my  grave  be  growinj;  green; 
She'll  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I  have  been. 

She'll  And  my  garden-tooU  upon  the  granary  floor; 
Let  her  take  'cm:  they  ore  hers:  I  shall  never  garden  more: 
But  tell  her,  when  I'm  gone,  to  train  the  rose-bush  that  I  set 
About  the  parlor-window  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

Good-nipht,  pweet  mother;  call  me  before  the  day  is  born. 

All  ni<;ht  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  nt  morn ; 

But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year, 

So,  If  you're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear.  * 


CONCLUSION. 

I  THoroDT  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  nlive  I  am ; 

And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the  bleating  of  the  lamb. 

How  sadly,  I  remeral)er,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year ; 

To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet's  here. 

O  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies. 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me  that  cannot  rise, 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  that  blow. 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  long  to  go. 

It  seem'd  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed  sun. 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay,  and  yet  His  will  be  done ! 
But  still  I  think  it  can't  be  long  before  I  find  release ; 
And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words  of  peace. 

O  blessings  on  his  kindly  voice  and  on  his  silver  hair! 

And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me  there . 

0  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his  silver  head ! 
A  thousand  times  I  blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my  bed. 

He  tanght  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  show'd  me  all  the  sin. 
Now,  tho'  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there's  One  will  let  me  in ; 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again,  if  that  could  be. 
For  my  desire  Is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for  me. 

1  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death- watch  beat, 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  ni^ht  and  morning  meet: 
Bnt  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine. 
And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign. 

All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  the  angels  call: 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  settins,  nnd  the  dark  was  over  all; 
The  trees  bcsnn  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll. 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  them  call  my  souL 
3 


3+ 


CONCLUSION. 


"  But  (It  tictld*  my  b*d,  mother,  aiul  put  your  linii't  in  n 
Awl  la*  oa  Ik*  oUmt  iUU,  ud  I  wUl  taU  liM  »!(>." 


For  lying  broad  awake  I  thonght  of  you  and  Effle  dear ; 
I  8aw  you  sitting  in  the  bonf>e,  and  I  no  longer  here : 
With  nil  my  strength  I  pray'd  for  both,  and  so  I  felt  rei<igiied, 
And 'up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  moaic  on  the  wind. 

I  thought  that  It  was  fancy,  and  I  listen'd  in  my  bed, 
And  then  did  Komething  speak  to  me— I  know  not  what  was  said ; 
For  great  delight  and  xhudderlng  took  bold  of  all  my  mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping :  and  1  said,  •'  It's  not  for  them :  it's  mine." 
And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought,  I  take  it  for  a  sign. 
And  once  again  It  came,  and  close  beside  the  window-bars, 
Then  seem'd  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven  and  die  among  the  stars. 

So  now  I  think  my  time  Is  near.    I  trust  it  Is.    I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  have  to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  cnre  not  if  I  go  to-dny. 
but  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  wlien  I  am  past  away. 


'  And  ny  to  Robin  «  kind  word,  «nd  tell  him  not  to  frrt : 
Ther«'«  many  worthier  than  I,  would  m«Ve  him  hap|<y  yet." 


THE  LOTOS-EATEKS. 


M 


And  My  to  Roblu  a  kliu)  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fV<eti 
There's  many  worthier  thun  I,  would  mnko  him  happjr  yet. 
If  I  had  lived— I  cauuot  tell— I  uii|;bt  have  bceu  hU  wife ; 
But  all  theae  tbingi  IwTe  ceued  to  b«,  with  mj  d«tira  of  life. 

(>  look !  the  «nn  beKins  to  rlae,  the  hMrens  are  in  a  glow ; 

}!(>  Hhlncii  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I  know. 

Aud  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  hia  lighi  ni:i.v  hlilnu— 

Wild  flowera  in  the  raUey  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

O  aweet  and  Htran^  it  seems  to  mc,  that  ere  this  day  is  done 
The  Yolcc,  thni  now  lit  B|M>ukln);,  may  be  beyond  the  sau— 
For  ever  aud  for  ever  with  thow  Just  aonls  and  true— 
And  what  la  life,  that  we  should  moan?  why  make  wo  such  ado? 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  all  In  n  blcwcd  home— 
Aud  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you  and  Effle  come- 
To  He  within  the  light  of  Ood,  ns  I  lie  upuu  your  breast — 
Aud  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  aud  the  weary  are  at  rest 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 

"  CovEAOB  r  he  said,  and  pointed  townrd  the  land, 
"This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shoreward  soou." 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land, 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  iiir  did  swoon, 
Hrentliing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary  dreiim.         • 
Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the  moon ; 
And  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slender  stream 
Along  the  cliff  to  fall  aud  pause  aud  fall  did  seem. 

A  land  of  streams !  some,  like  a  downward  smoke, 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did  go ; 

And  some  thro'  wavering  lights  and  shadows  broke. 

Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  below. 

They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward  flow 

From  the  inner  land:  far  off,  three  mountain-tops. 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow. 

Stood  sunset-fltis'hed :  and,  dew'd  with  showery  drops, 

Up^lomb  the-  shadowy  pine  above  the  woven  copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  linger'd  low  adown 

lu  the  red  West:  thro'  mountain  clefus  the  dale 

Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 

Border'd  with  palm,  and  many  a  winding  vale 

Aud  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale: 

A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd  the  same  I 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale. 

Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 

The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters  came. 

Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted  stem. 

Laden  with  flower  and  frait,  whereof  they  gave 

To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them, 

And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the  wave 

Far  far  away  did  seem  to  monrn  and  rave 

C>n  alien  shores ;  and  if  his  fellow  spake. 

His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the  grave ; 

And  deep-asleep  he  seem'd,  yet  all  awake. 

And  music  iu  his  ears  his  beating  heart  did  make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand. 
Between  the  sun  aud  moon  upon  the  shore ; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Fatherland, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave ;  bnt  evermore 
Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the  oar, 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 
Then  some  one  said,  "We  will  return  no  more;" 
Aud  all  at  once  they  sang,  "  Onr  island  home 
Is  fkr  beyond  the  wave;  we  will  no  longer  roam." 

CHORIC  SONG. 
1. 
Tbbkb  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 
Than  petals  fk'om  blown  roses  on  the  grass, 


Or  nlght-<lcwB  on  still  waters  between  walls 
Of  shadowy  grauit«,  in  a  gleaming  pass ; 
Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 
Thau  tir'd  eyelids  upon  tir'd  eyes: 
Music  that  brings  sweet  8lcei>  down  from  the  bliss- 
ful skies. 
Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 
And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 
And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved  flowers  weep, 
Aud  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs  iu  ticep. 

2. 
WTiy  are  we  weigh'd  upon  with  heaviness. 
And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress. 
While  all  things  else  have  rest  from  weariness? 
All  things  have  rest:  why  should  we  toil  alone. 
We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things, 
And  make  perpetual  moan. 
Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown : 
Nor  ever  fold  our  wings. 
And  cease  ft-om  wanderinp^ 
Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy  balm : 
Nor  hearken  what  the  Inner  spirit  sings, 
"  There  is  no  Joy  but  calm  !" 
Why  should   we  only  toil,  the  roof  aud  crown  of 
things  f 

3. 

Lo !  in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 

The  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  ont  the  bud 

With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 

Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no  care, 

Snn-sfeep'd  at  noon,  and  In  the  moon 

Nightly  dew-fed ;  and  turning  yellow 

Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 

Lo !  sweeteu'd  with  the  summer  light, 

The  full-Juiced  apple,  waxing  over-mellow, 

Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 

All  its  allotted  length  of  days. 

The  flower  ripens  in  its  place. 

Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no  toll, 

Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soiL 


Hatefnl  is  the  dnrk-bliie  sky. 
Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 
Death  is  the  end  of  life ;  ah,  why 
Shonld  life  all  labor  be  t 
Let  us  alone.    Time  driveth  onward  fast. 
And  in  a  little  while  pur  lips  are  dumb. 
I^t  us  alone.    What  is  it  that  will  last? 
All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 
Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  Past. 
Let  us  alone.    What  pleasure  can  we  have 
To  war  with  evil?    Is  there  any  peace 


'M 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  waveT 
All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward  the  grave 
In  silence;  ripen,  fall  and  cease: 
Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death,  or  dreamfhl 
ease. 


How  sweet  It  were,  hearing  the  downward  stream, 
With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 
Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream  ! 
To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber  light, 
Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on  the  height ; 
To  hear  each  other's  whisper'd  speech; 
Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day. 
To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach, 
And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray ; 
To  lend  our  hearts  and  splriu  wholly 
To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melancholy; 
To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  In  memory, 
With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 
Ueap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass, 
Two  handfula  of  white  dust,  ebut  in   an   uru  of 
brass ! 


Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives, 

And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 

And  their  warm  tears :  but  all  hath  Buflter'd  change ; 

For  surely  now  our  household  hearths  are  cold: 

Our  sons  inherit  us :  our  looks  are  strange : 

And  wc  should  come  like  ghosts  to  trouble  Joy. 

Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 

Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  minstrel  sings 

Before  them  of  the  ten-years*  war  in  Troy, 

And  our  great  deeds,  as  half-forgotten  things. 

Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle? 

Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 

The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile: 

'Tis  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 

There  is  confusion  worse  than  death. 

Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain, 

Long  labor  unto  aged  breath, 

Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  with  many  wnr^ 

And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gasing  on  the  pilot-stars. 

\ 

T. 

But,  propt  on  beds  of  amaranth  and  moly, 
How  sweet  (while  warm  airs  lull  us,  blowing  lowly) 
With  halMropt  eyelids  still, 
Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy. 
To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing  slowly 
His  waters  from  the  purple  hill- 
To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 
From  cave  to  cave  thro'  the  thick-twined  vine— 
To  watch  the  emerald-color'd  water  failing 
Thro'  many  a  wov'u  acanthus-wreath  divine  1 
Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  sparkling  brine, 
Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretcb'd  out  beneath  the 
pine. 

8. 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren  peak : 
The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding  creek : 
All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with  mellower  tone  : 
Thro'  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 
Sound  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the  yellow  Lotos- 
dust  is  blown. 
We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of  motion  we, 
RolI'd   to   starboard,  roll'd    to   larboard,  when  the 

surge  was  seething  free, 
Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted  his  foam- 
fountains  in  the  sea. 
Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with  an  eqnal 

mind, 
In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie  reclined 
On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  careless  of  man- 
kind. 


For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the  bolts  are 

hurl'd 
Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the  clouds  are 

lightly  curl'd 
Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with  the  gleam- 
ing world : 
Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over  wasted 

lands. 
Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earthquake,  roaring 

deeps  and  fiery  sands. 
Clanging   flgbts,  and    flaming   towns,  and   sinking 

ships,  aud  praying  hands. 
But  they  smile,  they  And  a  music  centred  in  a  dole- 
ful song 
Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  ancient  tale  of 

wrong. 
Like  a  tale  of  little  meaning  tho'  the  words  are 

strong ; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men  that  cleave 

the  soil. 
Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest  with  enduring 

toll, 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and  wine,  and  oil ; 
Till   they  perish  and  they  suffer— some,  'tis  whis- 
pered— down  in  hell 
Suffer  endless   anguish,  others  in   Elysiau   valleys 

dwell. 
Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds  of  asphodel. 
Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet  than  toil,  the 
•       shore 
Than  labor  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind  and  wave 

aud  oar ; 
O   rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not   wander 
more. 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 

I  KEAi>,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their  shade, 
"  The  Legend  of  Oood  Wvmen,"  lung  ago 

Sang  by  the  morning  star  of  song,  who  made 
His  music  beard  below ; 

Dan  Chancer,  the  first  warbler,  whose  sweet  breath 
Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  that  fill 

The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
With  sounds  that  echo  stilL 

And,  for  a  while,  the  knowledge  of  his  art 
Held  me  above  the  subject,  as  strong  gales 

Hold  swollcu  clouds  from  raining,  tho'  my  heart, 
Brimftil  of  those  wild  tales. 

Charged  both  mine  eyes  with  tears.    In  every  land 

I  saw,  wherever  light  illumineth. 
Beauty  and  anguish  walking  hand  in  hand 

Tho  downward  slope  to  death. 

Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient  song 

Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burning  stars, 

And  I  heard  sounds  of  insult,  shame,  aud  wrong, 
Aud  trumjjets  blown  for  wars; 

And  clattering  flints  batter'd  with  clanging  hoofs : 
And  I  saw  crowds  in  colnmn'd  sanctuaries ; 

And  forms  that  pass'd  at  windows  and  on  roofs 
Of  marble  palaces; 

Corpses  across  the  threshold ;  heroes  tall 

Dislodging  pinnacle  and  parapet 
Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall; 

Lances  in  ambush  set ; 

And   high   shrine -doors   burst   thro'   with   heated 
blasts 

That  run  before  the  fluttering  tongues  of  fire ; 
White  surf  wind-scatter*  d  over  sails  and  masts. 

And  ever  climbing  higher; 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMKN. 


87 


gqaadroM  and  w|a«rM  of  meu  In  brnsen  pUktM, 
Seaffblda,  •till  tbeeta  of  wator,  dWen  woMi 

RanRM  of  glimmering  Ttolta  with  Iron  gntea, 
And  iiiwh'd  aengltoc 

80  ahtpe  ehasad  shape  as  swift  as,  when  to  Innd 
Blaster  the  winds  and  tides  the  seir-samo  wny, 

Crisp  fbam-flakes  scud  along  the  lerel  sand, 
Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray. 

I  started  onco,  or  seem'd  to  start  in  pstn. 

Resolved  un  noble  things,  and  strove  to  speak. 

As  when  a  great  thonght  strikes  along  the  brain, 
And  flashes  all  the  cheek. 

And  once  my  arm  wa«  lifted  to  hew  down 
A  cavalier  from  oft  M»  saddle-bow, 

That  bore  a  Indy  from  a  leagaer'd  town ; 
And  then,  I  know  not  how,. 

All  those  sharp  ftmcies  by  down-lapsing  thought 
Stream'd  onward,  lost  their  edges,  and  did  creep 

Roird  on  each  other,  roanded,  smooth'd,  and  brongbt 
Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep. 

At  last  methonght  that  I  had  wandered  Ikr 

In  an  old  wood :  fre^h-wasb'd  in  coolest  dew, 

The  maiden  splendors  of  the  morning  star 
Shook  in  the  steadfast  blue. 

Enormous  elm-tree  boles  did  stoop  and  lean 
Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  underneath 

Their  broad  curved  branches,  fledged  with  clearest 
green, 
New  from  its  silken  sheath. 

The  dim  red  mom  had  died,  her  Joamey  done. 
And  with  dead  lips  smiled  at  the  twilight  plain, 

Half-faU'n  across  the  threshold  of  the  sun. 
Never  to  rise  again. 

There  was  no  motion  in  the  dumb  dead  air. 
Not  any  song  of  biM  or  sound  of  rill ; 

Qross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 
Is  not  so  deadly  stiU 

As  that  wide  forest.  Growths  of  Jasmine  tam'd 
Their  humid  arms  festooning  tree  to  tree, 

And  at  the  root  thro'  Insh  green  grasses  bum'd 
The  red  anemone. 

I  knew  the  flowers,  I  knew  the  leaves,  I  knew 
The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid  dawn 

On  those  long,  rank,  dark  wood-wallcs  drench'd  in 
dew. 
Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 

The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the  green, 

Poar'd  back  into  my  empty  soul  and  frame 

The  times  when  I  remember  to  have  been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 

And  from  within  me  a  clear  under-tone 

ThrilI'd  thro'  mine  ears  in  that  nnblissftil  clime, 

"  Pass  freely  thro' :  the  wood  is  all  thine  own. 
Until  the  end  of  time." 

At  length  I  saw  a  lady  within  call, 

Stiller  than  chisell'd  marble,  standing  there ; 
A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall. 

And  most  divinely  fair. 

Her  loveliness  with  shame  and  with  surprise 

Froze  my  swift  speech ;  she  turning  on  my  face 

The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes. 
Spoke  slowly  in  her  place. 

"  I  had  great  beanty ;  ask  thon  not  my  name : 
No  one  can  be  more  wise  than  destiny. 


Many  draw  swords  and  died.    Where'er  I 
I  bronght  calamity.** 

"No  marrel,  aoTerelgn  lady:  in  fair  Add 
Myself  for  sach  a  fkce  bad  boldly  died." 

I  answer'd  free;  and  taming  I  appcal'd 
To  one  that  stood  beside. 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scomftil  looks  arerse, 

To  her  M\  height  her  stately  statore  draws ; 
"My  youth,"  she  said,  "was  blasted  with  *  carte: 
This  woman  was  the  cause. 

"I  was  cut  oflr  from  hu|)c  in  that  sad  place. 

Which  yet  to  name  my  B|)irit  loathes  and  fears : 

My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face : 
I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

"Still  strove  to  speak:  my  voice  was  thick  with 
sighs 

As  in  a  dream.    Dimly  I  conid' descry 
The  stem  black-bearded  kings  with  wolflsh  eyes. 

Waiting  to  see  mc  die. 

"The  high  masts  flickcr'd  as  they  lay  afloat; 

The  crowds,  the  temples,  waver'd,  and  the  shore ; 
The  bright  death  quivcr'd  at  the  victim's  throat; 

Touch'd ;  and  I  knew  no  more." 

Whereto  the  other  with  a  downward  brow : 

"I  would  the  white  cold  henvy-plunging  foam, 

Whirl'd  by  the  wind,  had  roH'd  me  deep  below, 
Then  when  I  left  my  home." 

Her  slow  fall  words  sank  thro'  the  silence  drear, 
As  thunder-drops  fall  on  a  sleeping  sea ; 

Sudden  I  heard  a  voice  that  cried,  "  Come  here. 
That  I  may  look  on  thee." 

I  turning  saw,  throned  on  a  flow^y  rise, 
One  sitting  on  a  crimson  scarf  nnroli'd  ; 

A  qneen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold  black  eyw, 
Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 

She,  flashing  forth  a  haughty  smile,  began : 

"  I  govem'd  men  by  change,  and  so  I  sway'd 

All  moods.    'TIs  long  since  I  have  seen  a  man. 
Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made 

"The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the  blood 
According  to  my  humor  ebb  and  flow. 

I  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood : 
That  makes  my  only  woe. 

"Nay— yet  it  chafes  me  thot  I  could  not  bend 
One  win ;  nor  tame  and  tutor  with  mine  eye 

That  dnll  cold-blooded  Csesor.  Prythee,  IWend, 
Where  is  Mark  Antony? 

"  The  man,  my  lover,  with  whom  I  rode  sublime 
On  Fortune's  neck:  we  sat  as  God  by  God: 

The  Nilus  would  have  risen  before  his  time 
And  flooded  at  oar  nod. 

"  We  drank  the  Libyan  Sun  to  sleep,  and  lit 
Lamps  which  outburo'd  Canopus.    O  my  life 

In  Egypt !  O  the  dalliance  and  the  wit, 
The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

"And  the  wild  kiss,  when  treah  frx>m  war's  alarms, 

My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony, 
My  mailed  Bacchus  leapt  into  my  arms. 

Contented  there  to  die ! 

"And  there  he  died:  and  when  I  heard  my  name 
Slgh'd  forth  with  life  I  would  not  brook  my  fear 

Of  the  other :  with  a  worm  I  bolk'd  his  fame. 
What  else  was  left  t  look  here !" 


38 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


(With  that  Bhe  tore  her  robe  apart,  aud  half 
The  polish'd  argeut  of  her  breast  to  Bight 

Laid  bare.    Thereto  she  pointed  with  a  laugh, 
Sbowiug  the  aspic's  bite.) 

"  I  died  a  Qneen.    The  Roman  soldier  found 
Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my  brows, 

A  name  forever !— lying  robed  and  crowu'd. 
Worthy  a  Roman  spouse." 

Her  warbling  voice,  a  lyre  of  widest  range 

Struck  by  all  passion,  did  fall  down  and  glance 

From  tone  to  tone,  and  glided  thro'  all  change 
Of  liveliest  utterance. 

When  she  made  pause  I  knew  not  for  delight; 

Because  with  sudden  motion  from  the  ground 
She  raised  her  piercing  orbs,  and  flll'd  with  light 

The  interval  of  sound. 

Still  with  their  'fires  Love  tipt  his  keenest  darts ; 

As  once  they  drew  into  two  burning  rings 
All  beams  of  Love,  melting  the  mighty  hearts 

Of  captains  and  uf  kings. 

Slowly  my  sense  nndazzled.    Then  I  heard 
A  noise  uf  some  one  coming  thro'  the  lawn, 

Aud  singing  clearer  than  the  crested  bird, 
That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn. 

•'  The  torrent  brooks  of  hallow'd  Israel 

From  craggy  hollows  ponring,  late  and  soon, 

Sound  ail  night  long.  In  falling  thro*  the  dell, 
Far-heard  beneath  the  moon. 

"The  balmy  moon  of  blessed  Israel 

Floods  all  the  deep-blue  gloom  with  beams  di- 
vine : 
All  night  the  8i)linter'd  crags  that  wall  the  dell 

With  spires  f/t  silver  shine." 

As  one  that  mnseth  where  broad  sunshine  laves 
The  lawn  of  some  cathedral,  thro'  the  door 

Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  waves 
Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 

Within,  and  anthem  sang,  is  charm'd  and  tied 
To  where  he  stands,— so  stood  I,  when  that  flow 

Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 
fo  save  her  father's  vow ; 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Oileadite, 

A  maiden  pure ;  as  when  she  went  along 

From  Mizi>eh'8  tower'd  gate  with  welcome  light. 
With  timbrel  and  with  song. 

My  words  leapt  forth :  "  Heaven  heads  the  count  of 
crimes 

With  that  wild  oath."  She  render'd  answer  high : 
"  Not  so,  nor  once  alone ;  a  thousand  times 

I  would  be  bom  and  die. 

"Single  I  grew,  like  some  green  plant,  whose  root 
Creeps  to  the  garden  water-pipes  beneath, 

Feeding  the  ilower ;  but  ere  my  flower  to  fruit 
Changed,  I  was  ripe  for  death. 

"My  God,  my  land,  my  father,— these  did  move 
Me  from  my  bliss  of  life,  that  Natnre  gave, 

Lower'd  softly  with  a  threefold  cord  of  love 
Down  to  a  silent  grave. 

"And  I  went  mourning,  'No  fair  Hebrew  boy 
Shall  smile  away  my  maiden  blame  among 

The  Hebrew  mothers'  —emptied  of  all  joy 
Leaving  the  dance  and  song, 

"Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below. 

Leaving  the  promise  of  my  bridal  bower, 


The  valleys  of  grape-loaded  "vines  that  glow 
Beneath  the  battled  tower. 

"  The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  us.  Anon 
We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his  den; 

We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one  by  one, 
Or,  from  the  darken'd  glen, 

"Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying  flame, 
And  thunder  on  the  everlasting  hills. 

I  heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and  grief  became 
A  solemn  scorn  of  ills. 

"When  the  next  moon  was  roll'd  into  the  sky, 
Strength  came  to  me  that  equall'd  my  desire. 

Bow  beautiful  a  thing  it  was  to  die 
For  God  and  fur  my  sire ! 

"It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought  to  dn-ell, 
That  I  subdued  me  to  my  father's  will; 

Becanse  the  kiss  he  gave  roe,  ere  I  fell, 
Sweetens  the  spirit  stilL 

"Moreover  it  is  written  that  my  race 

Hew'd  Ammon,  hip  and  thigh,  from  Aroer 

On  Anion  unto  Minneth."     Here  her  face 
Glow'd,  as  I  look'd  at  her. 

She  lock'd  her  lips ;  she  left  me  where  I  stood : 
"  Glory  to  God,"  she  sung,  and  past  afar, 

Thrldding  the  sombre  boskage  of  the  wood, 
Toward  the  moming-star. 

Losing  ber  carol  I  stood  pensively, 

As  one  that  from  a  casement  leans  his  head, 
When  midnight  bells  cease  ringSig  suddenly, 

And  the  old  year  Is  dead. 

"Alas!  alas!"  a  low  voice,  fhll  of  care, 

Mnrmur'd  beside  me:  "Turn  aud  look  on  me: 

(  am  that  Rosamond,  whom  men  call  fair, 
If  what  I  was  I  be. 

"  Wonld  I  had  been  some  maiden  coarse  and  poor ! 

O  me,  that  I  should  ever  see  the  light ! 
Those  dragon  eyes  of  anger'd  Eleanor 

Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night" 

She  ceased  in  tears,  fallen  fi-om  hope  and  trust : 
To  whom  the  Egyptian :  "  O,  yon  tamely  died ! 

Yon  should  have  clung  to  Fulvia's  wabt,  and  thrust 
The  dagger  thro'  her  side." 

With  that  sharp  sound  the  white  dawn's  creeping 
beams, 

Stol'n  to  my  brain,  dissolved  the  mystery 
Of  folded  sleep.    The  capUin  of  my  dreams 

Ruled  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Mom  broaden'd  on  the  borders  of  the  dark. 

Ere  I  saw  her,  who  clasp'd  in  her  last  trance 

Her  murder'd  father's  head,  or  Joan  of  Arc, 
A  light  of  ancient  France ; 

Or  her,  who  knew  that  Love  can  vanquish  Death, 
Who  kneeling,  with  one  arm  about  her  king. 

Drew  forth  the  poison  wUh  her  balmy  breath. 
Sweet  as  new  buds  in  Spring. 

No  memory  labors  longer  from  the  deep 

Gold-mines  of  thought  to  lift  the  hidden  ore 

That  glimpses,  moving  up,  than  I  from  sleep 
To  gather  and  tell  o'er 

Each  little  sound  and  sight.    With  what  dull  pain 
Compass'd,  how  eagerly  I  sought  to  strike 

Into  that  wondrous  track 'of  dreams  again  ! 
But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 


MARGARET.— THE  BLACKBIRD.— THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR.    :i!» 


Af  when  a  muI  laniout»,  which  hnth  be«u  blwt, 

0«*lrlng  what  i»  mluijled  with  piwl  yoan, 
lu  \-«arnlnga  tbat  can  never  be  expreet 

By  algns  or  groana  or  t«ar«; 
• 
Decatue  all  worda,  tbu*  rnU'd  with  cholceat  art, 

Falling  to  give  Iho  bitter  of  the  owvet, 
Wither  beueath  the  (uilate,  aud  the  heart 

Faiuta,  faded  by  iu  beat. 


MARGARET. 

1. 

O  smcrr  pale  Margaret, 

O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
What  111  yonr  eyes  with  tearflil  power, 
Like  mooulixht  on  a  fiillln);  chowcr? 
Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower 

Of  pensive  thoii);ht  mh\  ai»|)ect  pale, 

Yonr  melancholy  eweet  oiid  frail 
As  perftinic  of  the  cuckoo-flower  T 
From  the  weutward-wliullng  fltH)d, 
From  the  eveniug-liuhtcd  wo<k1. 

Prom  all  thlntr*  outward  yon  have  won 
A  tearntl  grace,  as  tho'  you  stood 

Between  the  rainbow  and  the  san. 
The  very  smile  before  you  speak, 
That  dimples  your  transparent  check. 
Encircles  all  this  heart,  and  feedeth 
The  senses  with  a  still  deliijht 

Of  dainty  sorrow  without  souud, 

Like  the  tender  amber  round, 
Which  the  moon  about  her  spreadetb, 
Moving  thro'  a  fleecy  night. 


You  love,  remaining  peacefully, 

To  hear  the  murmur  of  the  strife, 
But  enter  not  the  toil  of  life. 

Yonr  spirit  is  the  calmed  sea. 

Laid  by  the  tumult  of  the  flght. 

Yon  are  the  evening  sur,  alway 

Remaining  betwixt  dark  and  bright : 

LuUM  echoes  of  lab:>rloa8  day 

Come  to  yon,  gleams  of  mellow  light 
Fli>at  by  yon  on  the  verge  of  night. 

3.      . 

What  can  it  matter,  Margaret, 

What  songs  below  the  waning  stars . 

The  lion-heart,  Plantas^euet, 

Sang  looking  thro'  his  prison  bars? 
Exquisite  Margaret,  who  can  tell 

The  last  wild  thought  of  Chatelet, 
Just  ere  the  fallen  axe  did  part 
The  burning  brain  from  the  true  heart. 
Even  in  her  sight  he  loved  so  well  ? 


A  fairy  shield  yonr  Oenioa  made 

And  gave  yon  on  your  natal  day. 
Yonr  sorrow,  only  sorrow's  shade, 

Keeps  real  sorrow  far  away. 
Yon  move  not  in  such  solltndes, 

Yon  are  not  less  divine, 
Bat  more  human  in  yonr  moods. 

Than  yonr  twin-sister,  Adeline. 
Yonr  hair  is  darker,  and  your  eyes 

Touch' d  with  a  somewhat  darker  line. 

And  less  aurlally  blue 

But  ever  trembling  thro'  the  dew 
Of  dainty-woftil  sympathies. 


O  sweet  pale  Margaret, 
O  rare  pale  Margaret, 


Come  down,  como  down,  and  hMr  me  speak : 
Tie  up  the  ringleta  on  yoor  cheek: 

The  aou  is  Just  about  to  set. 
The  arching  lirooii  are  tall  and  shady, 
And  fliint,  rainy  lights  are  seen, 
Moving  In  the  leafy  beech. 
Rise  flrom  the  feast  of  8orrt>w,  Inity, 

Where  all  day  long  you  sit  between 
Joy  and  woe,  and  whisper  each. 
Or  only  look  acroas  the  lawn, 

Look  out  below  your  bower<«avea. 

Look  down,  and  let  your  blue  cyea  dawn 

Upon  mo  thro*  the  Jasmiua-lMVM. 


.      THE  BLACKBIRD. 

O  BLAOxBianl  sing  me  something  well: 
While  all  the  neighbors  shoot  the  round, 
I  keep  smooth  plats  of  (hiltfUl  ground, 

Where  thou  may'st  warble,  eat,  and  dwell. 

The  espaliers  and  the  standards  all 
Are  thine :  the  range  of  lawn  and  park : 
The  uunetted  black-hearts  ripen  dark. 

All  thine,  against  the  garden  wall. 

Yet,  tho'  I  spared  thee  all  the  Spring, 
Thy  sole  delight  is,  silting  silll, 
With  that  gold  dagger  of  thy  bill 

To  fret  the  Summer  Jenneting. 

A  golden  bill !  the  silver  tongue. 

Cold  February  loved,  is  dry : 

Plenty  corrupts  the  melody  • 
That  made  thee  famous  once,  when  young: 

And  in  the  snitry  garden-sqnarea, 
Now  thy  flute-notes  are  changed  to  conr^e, 
I  hear  thee  not  at  all,  or  hoarse 

As  when  a  hawker  hawks  bis  wares. 

Take  warning!  he  that  will  not  sins 
While  yon  sun  prospers  in  the  bine, 
Shall  sing  for  want,  ere  leaves  are  new, 

Caught  in  the  frozen  palms  of  Spring. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR 

FcLi.  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow. 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  si^'hing: 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow. 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low. 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die  : 

Yon  came  to  us  so  readily. 

You  lived  with  us  so  steadily. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still:  be  doth  not  move: 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true,  true-love, 

And  the  New-year  will  take  'em  away. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  go ; 

So  long  as  yon  have  been  with  us, 

Such  Joy  as  yon  have  seen  with  us, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 

He  froth'd  his  bumpers  to  the  brim, 
A  Jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 
Bnt  tho*  his  eyes  are  waxin<;  dim. 
And  tho'  bis  foea  speak  ill  of  him, 
He  was  a  fHend  to  me. 


40 


TO  J.  S. 


And  tfMd  wfUy  ani  apaak  low, 
For  tho  oU  jtar  Uw  »-driav." 


Old  year,  yon  shall  not  die : 
We  did  8o  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 
I've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 
Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  fbll  of  joke  and  Jest, 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 
To  see  him  die  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he'll  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my  fHend, 

And  the  New-year  blithe  and  bold,  my  fk-iend. 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes !  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fTo : 
The  cricket  chirps:  the  light  bums  low: 
'Tie  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  yon  die. 

Old  year,  we'll  dearly  rue  for  you: 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack !  our  friend  is  gone, 
Close  up  his  eyes:  tie  up  his  chin: 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone, 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend, 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 


TO  J.  S. 

TuK  wind,  that  beats  the  mountain,  blows 
More  softly  round  the  open  wold. 

And  gently  comes  the  world  to  those 
That  are  cast  in  gentle  mould. 

And  me  this  knowledge  bolder  made, 

.    Or  else  I  had  not  dare  to  flow 
In  these  words  toward  you,  and  invade 
Even  with  a  verse  your  holy  woe. 

'Tis  strange  that  those  we  lean  on  most. 
Those  in  whose  laps  onr  limbs  are  nur^e  I, 

Fan  into  shadow,  soonest  lost : 

Those  we  love  first  are  taken  first 

Ood  gives  VLB  love.    Something  to  love 
He  lends  us ;  but,  when  love  is  grown 

To  ripeness,  that  on  which  it  throve 
Falls  off,  and  love  is  left  alone. 

This  is  the  cnrse  of  time.    Alas ! 

In  grief  I  am  not  all  unleam'd : 
Once  thro'  mine  own  doors  Death  did  pass; 

One  went,  who  never  hath  retnrn'd. 

He  will  not  smile— nor  sp^ak  to  me 

Once  more.    Two  years  his  chair  is  seen 

Empty  before  us.    That  was  he 

Without  whose  life  I  h^d  not  been. 

Your  loss  is  rarer ;  for  this  star 
Rose  with  you  thro'  a  little  arc 


YOU  ASK  MK  WHY.-LOVE  THOU  THY  LAND. 


41 


Of  hmTtn,  Bor  having  wander'd  tkt 
Shot  OB  Um  Middsn  iuto  dark. 

I  knew  Toar  brother:  hi*  route  ctURt 

I  honor  aud  bin  liviiiit  worth : 
A  man  mor«  pure  and  buld  mid  Just 

Was  never  born  into  the  enrth. 

I  hav«  not  look'd  upon  yon  ulsh, 

Since  that  dear  soul  hnth  fiiU'u  nslecj). 

Qreat  Nature  is  more  wlec  ihau  I  : 
I  will  not  tell  you  not  to  weep. 

And  tho'  mine  own  eyes  fill  with  dew, 
Dniwii  from  the  ciilrlt  thro'  the  brain, 

I  win  not  even  preach  to  yon, 

"  Weep,  weeping  dulls  the  iuwanl  pain." 

Let  Orlcf  be  her  own  mistrem  still. 

She  lovoth  her  own  angulfh  deep 
More  than  much  pleasure.    Let  her  will 

Be  done— to  weep  or  not  to  weep. 

I  will  not  My  "God's  ordinance 

Of  death  Is  blown  In  every  wind ;" 

For  that  is  not  a  common  chance 
That  takes  away  a  noble  mind. 

His  memory  long  will  live  alone 

In  all  onr  hearts,  as  mournftil  light 

That  broods  above  the  fallen  sun, 

And  dwells  in  heaven  half  the  night. 

Vain  solace!    Memory  standing  near 

Cast  down  her  eyes,  aud  in  her  throat 

Her  voice  seem'd  di!<tant,  and  a  tear 
Dropt  on  the  letters  as  I  wrote. 

I  wrote  I  know  not  what  In  tmth. 
How  thotdd  I  soothe  you  anyway. 

Who  miss  the  brother  of  your  youth  ? 
Yet  something  I  did  wish  to  say : 

For  he  too  was  a  friend  to  me: 

Both  are  my  friends,  and  my  tme  breast 
Bleedetb  for  both:  yet  it  may  be 

That  only  silence  snitcth  best. 

Words  weaker  than  yonr  grief  wonid  make 
Grief  more.    "Twere  better  I  should  cease ; 

Although  myself  could  almost  take 

The  place  of  him  that  sleeps  in  peace. 

Sleep  sweetly,  tender  heart,  in  peace ; 

Sleep,  holy  spirit,  blessed  soul. 
While  the  stars  bum,  the  moons  increase. 

And  the  great  ages  onward  roil. 

Sleep  till  the  end,  tme  soul  and  sweet. 

Nothing  comes  to  thee  new  or  strange, 
Sleep  full  of  rest  troxa  head  to  feet ; 

Lie  still,  dry  dnst,  secure  of  change. 


Tod  ask  me,  why,  tho*  ill  at  ease. 
Within  this  region  I  subsist. 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist. 

And  languish  for  the  purple  seasT 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till. 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose. 

The  land,  where  girt  with  friends  or  foes 

A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will ; 

A  land  of  settled  government, 

A  land  of  just  and  old  renown. 
Where  freedom  broadens  slowly  down 

From  precedent  to  precedent : 


Where  flKtion  aeldoa  gathers  head, 
But  by  degrees  to  Ailuess  wrought, 
The  Btrenitth  of  some  dURttlve  thought 

Hath  time  aud  space  to  work  and  spread. 

Should  banded  unions  pcrsocnte 
Opinion,  and  induce  a  time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crime, 

And  individual  ftvedom  mute ; 

Tho'  Power  should  make  trom  land  to  land 
The  name  of  Urltiilu  trebly  great— 
Tho'  every  channel  of  the  Slate 

Should  almost  choke  with  golden  sand— 

Yet  waft  me  fW)m  the  harbor-month, 
Wild  wind  1    I  seek  a  warmer  sky, 
And  I  will  see  before  1  die 

The  palms  aud  temples  of  the  Sontb. 


Or  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 
The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet: 

Above  her  shook  tho  surry  lights: 
She  beard  the  torrents  meet. 

There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 
Seif-gather'd  in  her  prophet-mind, 

But  fi'agments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Come  rolling  on  the  wind. 

Then  stept  she  down  thro'  town  and  field 
To  mingle  with  the  hnman  race, 

And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal'd 
The  fulness  of  her  face — 

Grave  mother  of  m.TJestic  works. 
From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down. 

Who,  God-like,  grasps  the  triple  forks, 
Aud,  King-like,  wears  the  crown : 

Iler  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.    May  perjMJtual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears; 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  shine, 

Make  bright  our  days  and  light  our  drenras^ 

Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes  1 


LoYX  thon  thy  land,  with  love  lar-brought 
From  out  the  storied  Past,  and  used 
Within  the  Present,  but  transfused 

Thro'  future  time  by  power  of  thought 

Tme  love  tnra'd  round  on  fixed  poles, 
Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends. 
For  English  natures,  freemen,  friends, 

Thy  brothers  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a  hasty  time, 
Nor  feed  with  erode  imaginings 
The  herd,  wild  hearts  and  feeble  wings. 

That  every  sophister  can  lime. 

Deliver  not  the  tasks  of  might 
To  weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 
From  those,  not  blind,  who  wait  for  day, 

Tho'  sitting  girt  with  donbtfhl  light 


42 


THE  GOOSE. 


Make  knowledge  circle  with  the  winds: 
But  let  her  herald,  Reverence,  fly 
Before  her  to  whatever  sky 

Bear  seed  or  men  and  growth  of  minds. 

Watch  what  main-currents  draw  the  years : 
Cut  Prejudice  against  the  grain: 
But  gentle  words  are  always  gain: 

Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  peers : 

Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch 
Of  peiisiou,  neither  count  on  praise : 
It  grows  to  guerdon  after-days : 

Kor  deal  In  watch-words  over-much; 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw; 

Not  master'd  by  some  modern  term ; 

Not  swift  or  slow  to  change,  but  firm : 
And  in  Its  season  bring  the  law; 

That  from  Discasslon's  lip  may  fall 
With  Life,  that,  working  strongly,  biuds- 
Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds, 

To  close  the  Interests  uf  all. 

For  Nature,  also,  cold  and  warm. 
And  moist  and  dry,  devising  long. 
Thro'  many  agents  making  strong, 

Matures  the  Individual  form. 

Meet  Is  It  changes  should  control 
Our  being,  lest  we  rust  In  ease. 
We  all  are  changed  by  still  degree*, 

All  but  the  basis  of  the  sonl. 

So  let  the  change  which  comes  be  ft-ec 
To  ingroove  itself  with  that,  which  fliee. 
And  work,  a  Joint  of  state,  that  plies 

Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy. 

A  saying,  hard  to  shape  In  act ; 
For  all  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A  bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals. 

Wherever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact. 

Ev'n  now  we  hear  with  Inward  strife 
A  motion  tolling  In  the  gloom— 
The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 

Yearning  to  mix  himself  with  Life. 

A  slow-develop'd  strength  awaits 
Completion  In  a  painful  school ; 
Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule. 

New  Majesties  of  mighty  States — 

The  warders  of  the  growing  hour. 
But  vague  in  vapor,  hard  to  mark ; 
And  round  them  sea  and  air  are  dark 

With  great  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes,  aptly  join'd, 
Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 
Regard  gradation,  lest  the  soul 

Of  Discord  race  the  rising  wind; 

A  wind  to  puff  your  Idol-flres, 
And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head; 
To  shame  the  boast  so  often  made. 

That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires. 

O  yet,  if  Nature's  evil  star 
Drive  men  in  manhood,  as  in  youth, 
To  follow  flying  steps  of  Truth 

Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war — 

If  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud, 
Must  ever  shock,  like  amieil  foes. 
And  this  be  true,  till  Time  shall  close. 

That  Principles  are  rain'd  in  blood; 


Not  yet  the  wise  of  heart  would  cease 
To  hold  his  hope  thro'  shame  and  guilt, 
But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt, 

Would  pace  the  troubled  land,  like  Peace ; 

Not  less,  tho'  dogs  of  Faction  bay, 
Would  sene  his  kind  in  deed  and  word. 
Certain,  if  knowledge  bring  the  sword. 
That  Imow  ledge  takes  the  sword  a  way- 
Would  love  the  gleams  of  good  that  broke 
From  either  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes : 
And  If  some  dreadful  need  shotild  rise 
Would  strike,  and  firmly,  and  one  stroke : 

To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day, 
As  we  bear  blossom  of  the  dead ; 
Earn  well  the  thrifty  months,  nor  wed 

Raw  Haste,  half-sister  to  Delay. 


THE  GOOSE. 

I  KNBw  an  old  wife  lean  and  poor, 

Her  rags  scarce  held  together; 
There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door. 

And  it  waa  windy  ^feather. 

He  held  a  goose  upon  his  arm. 

He  ntter'd  rhyme  and  reason, 
"  Here,  take  the  goose,  and  keep  you  warm. 

It  is  a  stormy  season." 

She  canght  the  white  gooee  by  the  leg. 

A  goose— 'twas  no  great  matter. 
The  goose  let  fall  a  gulden  egg 

With  cackle  and  with  clatter. 

She  dropt  the  goose,  and  canght  the  peIC 

And  ran  to  tell  her  neighbors; 
And  bless'd  herself,  and  cursed  bersell^ 

And  rested  from  her  labors. 

And  feeding  high,  and  living  soft. 

Grew  plump  and  able-bodied  ; 
Until  the  grare  churchwarden  dolTd, 

The  parson  smirk'd  and  nodded. 

So  sitting,  sen'ed  by  man  and  maid. 
She  felt  her  heart  grow  prouder: 

But  ah  1  the  more  the  white  goose  laid 
It  clack'd  and  cackled  louder. 

It  clntter'd  here.  It  chuckled  there; 

It  stlrr'd  the  old  wife's  mettle: 
She  shifted  in  her  elbow-chair, 

And  hurl'd  the  pan  and  kettle. 

"  A  quinsy  choke  thy  cursed  note  1" 
Then  wax'd  her  anger  stronger. 

"Go,  Uke  the  goose,  and  wring  her  throat, 
I  will  not  bear  it  longer." 

Then  yelp'd  the  cur,  and  yawl'd  the  cat ; 

Ran  Gaffer,  stumbled  Gammee, 
The  goose  flew  this  way  and  flew  thai, 

And  flll'd  the  house  with  clamor. 

As  head  and  heels  upon  the  floor 

They  floundered  all  together. 
There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door, 

And  it  was  windy  weather: 

He  took  the  goose  upon  his  arm. 

He  ntter'd  words  of  scorning; 
"So  keep  you  cold,  or  keep  you  warm. 

It  Is  a  stormy  morning." 


THE  KI»IC. 


43 


'  A*  h«ad  Bod  bMlf  upon  th«  floor 
Tbcy  floondared  bII  toKathar, 
Thar*  (trod*  •  (traogrr  to  th*  door." 


The  wild  wind  nnf;  (Wtm  park  and  plain, 
And  roand  the  attics  rambled. 

Till  all  the  tables  danced  again, 
And  half  the  chimneys  tumbled. 

The  glass  blew  in,  the  lire  blew  ont, 
The  blast  was  hard  and  harder. 


Her  cap  blew  off,  her  gown  blew  up. 
And  a  whirlwind  clear'd  the  larder; 

And  while  on  all  sides  breaking  loo»c 
Her'houfKJhoId  fled  the  danger. 

Quoth  she,  "The  Devil  take  the  goose, 
And  God  forget  the  stranger'." 


ENGLISH  IDYLS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


(PUBLISHED  1842.) 


THE    EPIC. 


At  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christmas-ere, — 
The  game  of  forfeits  done— the  girls  all  kiss'd 
Beneath  the  sacred  bush  and  past  awuy — 
The  parson  Uolmes,  the  poet  Everard  Hall, 
The  host,  and  I  sat  round  the  wassail-bowl, 
Then  half-way  ebb'd :  and  there  we  held  a  talk. 
How  all  the  old  honor  had  from  Christmas  gone, 
Or  gone,  or  dwindled  down  to  some  odd  games 
In  some  odd  nooks  like  this ;  till  I,  tired  ont 
With  cutting  eights  that  day  upon  the  pond. 
Where,  three  times  slipping  from  the  onter  edge, 
I  bump'd  the  ice  into  three  several  stars. 
Fell  in  a  doze;  and  half-awake  I  heard 
The  parson  taking  wide  and  wider  sweeps, 
Now  harping  ott  the  ehurch-commissioners;, 
Now  hawking  at  Geology  and  schism : 
Until  I  woke,  and  found  him  settled  down 
Upon  the  general  decay  of  faith 
Right  thro'  the  world,  "at  home  was  little  left, 
,  And  none  abroad :  there  was  no  anchor,  none. 
To  hold  by."    Francis,  laughing,  clapt  his  hand 
On  Everard's  shoulder,  with  "  I  hold  by  him." 


"And  I,"  quoth  Everard,  "by  the  wassail-bowL" 

"Why  yes,"  I  said,  "  we  knew  your  gift  that  way 

At  college :  but  another  which  you  had— 

I  mean  of  verse  (for  so  we  held  It  then,) 

What  came  of  that?"     "You  know,"  said   Frank, 

"he  burnt 
His  epic,  his  King  Arthur,  some  twelve  books  "— 
And  then  to  me  demanding  why?    "O,  sir. 
He  thought  that  nothing  new  was  said,  or  else 
Something  so  said  'twas  nothing— that  a  truth 
Looks  freshest  in  the  fashion  of  the  day: 
God  knows :  he  has  a  mint  of  reasons :  ask. 
It  pleased  me  well  enough."    "  Nay,  nay,"  said  Hal!, 
"  Why  take  the  style  of  those  heroic  times  f 
For  nature  brinjrs  not  back  the  Mastodon, 
Nor  we  those  times ;   and  why  should  any  msu 
Remodel  models  ?  these  twelve  books  of  mine 
Were  faint  Homeric  echoes,  nothing-worth. 
Mere  chaff  and  draff,  much  better  burnt."    "Bnt  I." 
Said  Francis,  "pick'd  the  eleventh  from  this  hearth. 
And  have  It:  keep  a  thing,  its  use  will  come. 
I  hoard  it  as  a  sagar-plum  for  Holmes!" 
He  laugh'd,  and  I,  though  sleepy,  like  a  horse 
That  hears  the  corn-bin  open,  prick'd  my  ears ; 


44 


MORTE  D'ARTHUR. 


For  I  remember'd  Everard'e  college  fame 
When  we  were  Freshmen :  then  at  my  request 
He  brought  It ;  and  the  poet,  little  urged. 
But  with  some  prelude  of  disparagement, 
Read,  mouthing  out  his  hollow  oes  and  aes, 
Deep-chested  music,  and  to  this  result. 


MORTE  D'ARTHUR. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 

Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea; 

Until  King  Arthur's  table,,  man  by  man. 

Had  faH'u  in  Lyouness  about  their  Lord, 

King  Arthur :  then,  because  his  wound  was  deep, 

The  bold  8ir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 

•Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  kuigbte, 

And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 

A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 

That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 

On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 

Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moou  v/aa  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
"The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  kuigbts 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.    Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep— the  men  I  loved.    I  think  that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  fatare  time, 


Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds. 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halbs 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made,— 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more— but  let  what  will  be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  mom. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride:  for  thou  rememberest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
Holding  the  sword — and  how  I  rowed  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king : 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  l)c  known : 
But  now  delay  not:  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere: 
Watch  what  thon  se^t,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"It  is  not  meet,  Sir  Kini,  to  leave  thee  thus. 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  barm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full. 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word." 

So  saying,  fW)m  the  ruined  shrine  he  stept 
And  In  the  moou  athwart  the  place  of  tomb*>. 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men. 


"  An  «rm 
Row  op  from  ont  the  boaom  of  the  Uk*, 
Clothed  in  white  umite." 


MORTE  D'ARTHUR 


48 


Old  kolghta,  and  orer  them  the  wa-wlnd  uag 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flak«it  o(  foniii.    Ho,  stepping  down 
By  alg-aag  pathis  and  JuIm  of  iMilnled  mck, 
Came  on  the  vbinlu^  IovoIm  of  th«  lake. 

There  drvw  he  forth  the  brand  Excallbor, 
And  o'er  hini,  drnwlng  It,  the  winter  moon, 
Britjhtfiihi);  the  Kkirt*  of  a  long  cloud,  mn  forth 
And  Hparkled  kcun  with  flroat  ai;alui>t  the  hilt: 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  i>tud», 
Mjrriads  of  topaa-liKhti>,  and  Jacinth-work 
Of  siihtlcKt  Jewellery.    He  gated  eo  long 
That  both  hio  eyes  Mtere  daxsled,  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swllt  mind, 
III  act  to  throw :  bnt  nt  the  last  It  seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Bxcalibur  conceal'd 
There  In  the  many-knotted  watcrflag#. 
That  whistled  etifT  nnd  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  king. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedlvere : 
"  Hast  thoa  perfonned  my  misolon  which  I  gave  f 
What  Is  it  thoa  hast  seen  or  what  hast  beard  t" 

And  answer  made  the  hold  Sir  Bedivcre : 
*'  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  rccdet. 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pnio: 
"Thoa  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand. 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thoe,  quickly  go  again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedlvere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere. 
Counting  the  dewy  pebblcp,  flx'd  'n  thought ; 
Bnt  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt. 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud. 

"And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away. 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth. 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done? 
What  harm,  undone  t  deep  harm  to  disobey. 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
'  An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aflertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  mmors  of  a  doubt  T  but  were  this  kept. 
Stored  in  some  treasnre-hoase  of  mighty  kings. 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  Joost  of  arms, 
Saying,  '  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibnr, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.* 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were  lost." 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  bis  own  conceit. 
And  hid  Excalibnr  the  second  time. 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily: 
"  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast  heard  f ' 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedlvere: 
"I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

To  whom  replied  Kinf:  Arthur,  mnch  in  wrath : 
"  Ah,  miserable  and  nnkind,  untrue, 
Unknlghtly,  traitor-hearted !    Woe  is  me ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king. 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.    I  see  thee  what  thon  art, 
For  thon,  the  latest  left  of  all  my  knights. 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all. 


Thon  wouldst  betray  ma  tot  th*  prveiont  hilt : 

Kliher  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  t  girl 

Valuint;  the  K<<idy  pleasure  of  the  eye* 

Yet,  for  a  man  may  fall  In  duty  twlee, 

And  the  third  time  may  pnMi|>er,  get  tbM  henwi 

But,  if  thou  Hpare  to  fling  Bxcalibur, 

I  will  ariHc  nnd  slay  thee  wiili  my  hands." 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedlvere,  and  ran, 
.\nd,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
.\niong  the  bulnish-beds,  and  clutch'd  the  sword. 
And  strongly  wheel'd  nnd  threw  It.    The  great  brand 
^adc  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  ni<M>n, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd  In  au 

arch. 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  room. 
Seen  where  the  moving  iitles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noixes  of  the  northern  Hja. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Bxcalibur: 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  hurfnce,  rose  an  arm 
Cloth'd  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  tlmei<,  nnd  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
.\nd  ilijhtly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker  breath: 

"Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  ont :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen  ?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedlvere: 
"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw. 
Nor  shall  sec,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die. 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men. 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him ; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  nnd  drew  hlra  under  in  the  mere." 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing  hard: 
"  My  end  draws  nigh ;  'tis  time  that  1  were  gone, 
Mnke  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weiglit, 
And  bear  nic  to  the  margin ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose. 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm. 
And  looking  wintfhlly  with  wide  blue  eyes 
.\s  in  a  picture.    Him  Sir  Bedlvere 
Remorsefnlly  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words, 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  bunds. 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk'd.  King  Arthur  panted  hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.    So  sigh'd  the  King, 
Muttering  and  murmnring  at  his  ear  "Quick,  quick! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
Bnt  the  other  swiftly  strode  fi-om  ridge  to  ridge. 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he  walk'd. 
Larger  than  human  on  the  fi-o/.en  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.    His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 
The  bare  black  clifl'  clnng'd  round  him,  as  he  based 
His  feet  On  Juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heela^ 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo !  the  level  lake. 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  tbey  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge. 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stem. 
Beneath  them:  and  descending  they  were  ware 
Tifat  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream— by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold— and  f^om  them 

rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
.\nd,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind,  that  shrills 


46 


MORTE  D'ARTHUR. 


All  night  in  a  waste  land,  wiiere  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  fince  the  making  of  the  world. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "Place  me  in  the  barge," 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those  three 

Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King,  and  wept 
But  she  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  bis  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd  cabque,  and  chafed  his  hands, 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood :  for  all  his  face  was  white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither'd  moon 
tjmote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east ; 


"  Ah !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go  T 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance. 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  hath 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  boumr  table  is  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companiouless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  niii.ds." 
And  slowly  answer'd  Arthur  from  the  baiLc; 
"The  old  order  changeth, yielding  place  to  uew, 


cd 


"  Laid  hli  head  upon  her  lap. 
And  looted  the  ihatterM  raiqae,  and  chafed  hi*  hand*, 
And  called  him  by  hla  name." 


And  all  his  greaves  and  culeses  dasb'd  with  drops 
Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High  from  the  dais-throne — were  parch'd  with  dost; 
Or,  clott«d  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed  his  lipl. 
So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  King; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament. 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 
Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 


And  God  fhlflls  himself  in  many  ways, 

Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 

Comfort  thyself:  what  comfort  is  in  me? 

I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 

May  He  within  himself  make  pure  1  but  thou. 

If  thou  shonldst  never  see  my  face  again. 

Pray  for  my  soul.    More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 

Than  this  world  dreams  ot    Wherefore,  let  thy  voice 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goata 

That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain. 

If,  knowing  God.  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


47 


Both  for  tbeniMlvM  ud  thoM  who  call  tb«m  (H«Ddr 
Kor  Ki>  the  whole  round  wurth  Is  every  way 
lionud  hj  gold  duklns  aboat  the  Awt  of  God. 
Hut  now  fiuewtll.    I  am  golnit  a  long  way 
With  theae  thoa  aet^t— tf  iudeiMl  I  ro— 
(For  nil  my  minil  i«  cluuded  with  a  doabt) 
To  tlu«  lulmid-vnlloy  i>f  Avllion; 
Where  falls  not  ball,  or  rnln,  or  aujr  mow, 
Nor  erer  wind  blows  loudly ;  but  It  Ilea 
I)eep-rae«dow'd,  hnppy,  fair  with  orchard  lawna 
And  bowery  hollowx  crowo'd  with  anmmer  aea, 
Where  I  will  bcnl  ntc  of  my  grievous  wooud." 
80  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  ttom  the  brink,  like  some  nill-breaat«d  swaa— 
That,  fluting  a  wild  enrol  ere  her  death, 
Kufflea  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  weba.    Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hall 
lAwk'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn. 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 


Here  ended  Ilnll,  and  our  last  light,  that  long 
Had  wink'd  and  threateu'd  darkness,  flared  and  fell : 
At  which  the  Parson,  sent  to  sleep  with  sound. 
And  waked  with  silence,  gmnted  "Good!"  but  we 
Sat  rapt:  it  wait  the  tone  with  which  he  rend — 
Perhaps  some  niotiem  tuurhe$>  here  and  there 
Kedeem'd  it  from  the  charj^  of  nothlngne<u< — 
Or  else  we  loved  the  man,  and  prised  his  work ; 
I  know  not :  but  we  sitting,  as  I  said, 
The  cock  crew  luud ;  as  at  that  time  of  jrear 
The  lusty  bird  takes  every  hour  for  dawn : 
Then  Francis,  mutteriDK,  like  a  man  ill-need, 
"There  now— that's  nothing!"  drew  a  little  back, 
And  drove  his  heel  Into  the  smoiilder'd  log, 
That  sent  a  blast  of  sparkles  up  the  flue : 
And  so  to  bed ;  where  yet  In  sleep  I  seem'd 
To  sail  with  Arthur  under  looming  shoreis 
Point  after  point;  till  on  to  dawn,  when  dreams 
Begin  to  feel  the  tmth  and  stir  of  day. 
To  me,  methoDL^ht,  who  waited  with  a  crowd. 
There  came  a  bark  that,  blowing  forward,  bore 
King  Arthur,  like  a  modern  gentleman 
Of  stateliest  port;  and  all  the  people  cried, 
"Arthur  is  come  again:  he  cannot  die." 
Then  those  that  stood  upon  the  bills  behind 
Repeated— "Come  again,  and  thrice  as  fair;" 
And,  further  Inland,  voices  echoed — "Come 
With  all  good  things,  and  war  shall  be  no  more." 
At  this  a  hundred  bells  began  to- peal. 
That  with  the  sound  I  woke,  and  heard  Indeed 
The  clear  church-bells  ring  in  the  Christmas  mom. 


THE  GARDENERS  DAUGHTER;  OR, 

THE  PICTURES. 

This  morning  is  the  morning  of  the  day. 
When  I  and  Eustace  from  the  city  went 
To  see  the  Gardener's  Daughter;  I  and  he, 
Brothers  In  Art ;  a  friendship  so  complete 
Portion'd  In  halves  between  us,  that  we  g^w 
The  fable  of  the  city  where  we  dwelt 

My  Eustace  might  have  sat  for  Hercnles; 
80  muscular  he  spread,  so  broad  of  breast. 
He,  by  some  law  that  holds  In  love,  and  draws 
The  greater  to  the  lesser,  long  desired 
A  certain  miracle  of  symmetry, 
A  miniature  of  loveliness,  all  grace 
Snmm'd  up  and  closed  In  little ;— Juliet,  she 
So  light  of  foot,  so  light  of  spirit— oh,  she 
To  me  my.«elf,  for  some  three  careless  moons, 
The  summer  pilot  of  an  empty  heart 
Unto  the  shores  of  nothing !    Know  yon  not 
Snch  touches  are  but  embassies  of  love. 
To  tamper  with  the  feelings,  ere  he  found 


Knpire  Ibr  \\h1  but  Eustace  patnloil  her, 
Aud  said  to  me,  she  sitting  with  us  then, 
"Wh«n  will  you  paint  like  this?"  and  I  replied, 
(My  words  were  half  In  earnest,  half  in  Jest,) 
"  Tis  not  your  work,  but  I.ove's.    Love,  uuperceived. 
A  more  ideal  Arttat  he  than  all. 
Came,  drew  your  pencil  from  yon,  made  those  cyv 
Darker  than  darkeat  pansles,  and  that  hair 
.More  black  than  ashbuds  In  the  (yont  of  March." 
And  Juliet  auswer'd  laughing,  "Go  and  i>ee 
The  Gardener's  daughter:  trust  mo,  after  that. 
You  scarce  can  fhll  to  match  his  masterpiece." 
And  up  we  rose,  and  on  the  spur  wo  went. 

Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor  quite 
Beyond  it,  bliMims  the  garden  that  I  love. 
News  fhim  the  bumming  city  comes  to  it 
In  sound  of  funeral  or  of  marriage  I>cll8 ; 
And,  sitting  muflied  In  dark  leaves,  you  hear 
The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster  clock ; 
Although  between  it  and  the  garden  lies 
A  league  of  grass,  wash'd  by  a  alow  broad  stream, 
That,  stirr'd  with  languid  pulses  of  the  oar. 
Waves  all  its  lacy  lilies,  and  creeps  on, 
Barge-luden,  to  three  arches  of  a  bridge 
Crown'd  with  the  minster  towers. 

The  fields  between 
Are  dewy-fresh,  browsed  by  deep-udder'd  klne, 
And  all  about  the  lar),'e  lime  feathers  low, 
The  lime  a  summer  home  of  murmurous  wluga. 

In  that  still  place  she,  hoarded  In  herself. 
Grew,  seldom  seen :  not  less  among  us  lives 
Her  fame  trom  lip  to  lip.    Wlio  had  not  heard 
Of  Rose,  the  Gardener's  daughter?    Where  was  he, 
80  blunt  In  memory,  so  old  at  heart. 
At  such  a  distance  IVom  his  youth  In  grief, 
That,  having  seen,  forgot?    The  common  month 
80  gross  to  express  delight.  In  praise  of  her 
Grew  oratory.    Such  a  lord  Is  Love, 
And  Beanty  such  a  mistress  ol  the  world. 

And  If  I  said  that  Fancy,  led  by  Love, 
Would  play  with  flying  forms  and  images. 
Yet  this  is  also  true,  that^  long  before 
I  look'd  upon  her,  when  I  heard  her  name 
My  heart  was  like  a  prophet  to  my  heart 
And  told  me  I  should  love.    A  crowd  of  hopes. 
That  sought  to  sow  themselves  like  winged  seed*. 
Bom  out  of  everything  I  heard  and  saw, 
Flutfcr'd  about  my  senses  and  my  sonl ; 
.'Vnd  vague  desires,  like  fitful  blasts  of  balm 
To  one  that  travels  quickly,  made  the  air 
Of  Life  dellclons,  and  all  kinds  of  thought. 
That  verged  upon  them,  sweeter  than  the  dream 
Dream'd  by  a  happy  man,  when  the  dark  East, 
Unseen,  Is  brightening  to  his  bridal  morn. 

And  sure  this  orbit  of  the  memory  folds 
Forever  in  itself  the  day  we  went 
To  see  her.    All  the  land  in  flowery  squares 
Beneath  a  broad  and  equal-blowing  wind. 
Smelt  of  the  coming  summer,  as  one  large  clond 
Drew  downward;  but  all  else  of  Heaven  was  pnrc 
Up  to  the  8un,  and  May  from  verge  to  verge. 
And  May  with  me  from  head  to  heel.    And  now. 
As  tho'  't  were  yesterday,  as  tho'  It  were 
The  honr  Just  flown,  that  morn  with  all  Its  sound, 
(For  those  old  Mays  had  thrice  the  life  of  these.) 
Rings  In  mine  ears.    The  steer  forgot- to  grace. 
And,  where  the  hedge-row  cuts  the  pathway,  stood, 
Leaning  his  boras  into  the  neighbor  fleld. 
And  lowing  to  his  fellows.    From  the  woods 
Came  voices  of  the  well-contented  doves. 
The  lark  could  scarce  get  oat  bis  notes  for  Joy, 
But  shook  his  song  together  as  he  near'd 
His  happy  home,  the  gronnd.    To  left  and  right. 
The  cnckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the  hills; 
The  mellow  oniel  fluted  In  the  elm ; 
The  redcap  whistled;  and  the  nlirhtingale 
Sang  loud,  as  tho'  he  were  the  bird  of  day. 

And  Eustace  tara'd,  and  smiling  said  to  me, 


48 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


"Hear  how  the  bushes  echo!  by  my  life, 

These  birds  have  joyful  thoughts.     Think  you  they 

elug 
Like  poets,  from  the  vanity  of  song  ? 
Or  have  they  any  sense  of  why  they  sing  t 
And  would  they  praise  the  heavens  for  what  they 

havef" 
And  I  made  answer,  "Were  there  nothing  else 
For  which  to  praise  the  heavens  but  only  love. 
That  only  love  were  canse  enough  for  praise." 

Lightly  he  langh'd,  as  one  that  read  my  thought, 
And  on  we  went;  but  ere  an  hour  had  pass'd. 
We  reach'd  a  meadow  slanting  to  the  North ; 
Down  which  a  well-worn  pathway  courted  ua 
To  one  green  wicket  in  a  privet  hedge; 
This,  yielding,  gave  into  a  grasny  walk 
Thro'  crowded  lilac-ambush  trimly  pruned; 
And  one  warm  gust,  ful>-fed  with  perfume,  blew 
Beyond  us,  as  we  enter'd  in  the  cool. 
The  garden  stretches  southward.    In  the  midst 
A  cedar  spread  his  dark-green  layers  of  shade. 
The  garden-glasses  shone,  and  momently 
The  twinkling  laurel  scatter'd  silver  lights. 

"Eustace,"  I  said,  "this  wonder  keeps  the  honse." 
He  nodded,  but  a  moment  afterwards 
He  cried,  "  Look !  look  !"    Before  he  ceased  I  tam'd, 
And,  ere  a  star  can  wink,  beheld  her  there. 

Fur  np  the  porch  there  grew  an  Eastern  rose. 
That,  flowering  high,  the  last  night's  gale  bad  caaght, 
And  blown  across  the  walk.    One  arm  aloft — 
Oowu'd  in  pure  white,  that  tilted  to  the  shape- 
Holding  the  bush,  to  fix  it  back,  she  stood. 
A  single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown  hair 
Pour'd  on  one  side :  the  shadow  of  the  flowers 
Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  and,  wavering 
Lovingly  lower,  trembled  on  her  waist— 
Ah,  happy  shade— and  still  weut  wavering  down, 
But,  ere  it  toncb'd  a  foot,  that  might  have  danced 
The  greensward  Into  greener  circles,  dipt. 
And  mlx'd  with  shadows  of  the  common  ground ! 
Bat  the  fUll  day  dwelt  on  her  brows,  and  suun'd 
Her  violei  eyes  and  all  her  Hebe-bloom, 
And  doubled  his  own  warmth  against  her  lips, 
And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a  breast 
As  never  pencil  drew.    Half  Itgbt,  half  shade, 
8ho  stood,  a  sight  to  make  an  old  man  yoang. 

So  rapt,  we  uear'd  the  house ;  but  she,  a  Kose 
In  roses,  mingled  with  her  fhigraut  toll, 
Nor  heard  us  come,  nor  from  her  tendance  tnm'd 
Into  the  world  without;  till  close  at  hand, 
And  almost  ere  I  knew  mine  own  intent, 
This  murmur  broke  the  stillness  of  that  air 
Which  brooded  round  about  her: 

"  Ah,  one  rose. 
One  rose,  but  one,  by  those  fair  fingers  cnll'd. 
Were  worth  a  hundred  kisses  prees'd  on  lips 
*  Less  exquisite  than  thiue." 

She  look'd :  but  all 
Saffosed  with  blushes — neither  self-possess'd 
Nor  startled,  but  betwixt  this  mood  and  that, 
Divided  in  a  graceful  quiet— paused, 
And  dropt  the  branch  she  held,  and  tnming,  wound 
Her  looser  hair  in  braid,  and  stirr'd  her  lips 
For  some  sweet  answer,  tho'  no  answer  came, 
Nor  yet  refused  the  rose,  but  granted  it. 
And  moved  away,  and  left  me,  statue-like, 
In  act  to  render  thanks. 

I,  that  whole  day, 
Saw  her  no  more,  altho"  I  linger'd  there 
Till  every  daisy  slept,  and  Love's  white  star 
Beam'd  thro'  the  thicken'd  cedar  in  the  dusk. 

So  home  we  went,  and  all  the  livelong  way 
With  solemn  gibe  did  Eustace  banter  me. 
"  Now,"  said  he,  "  will  you  climb  the  top  of  Art. 
You  cannot  fail  but  work  in  hues  to  dim 
The  Titianic  Flora.    Will  yon  match 
My  Juliet  ?  yon,  not  you,— the  Master,  Lore, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all." 


So  home  I  went,  but  could  not  sleep  for  joy, 
Reading  her  perfect  features  in  the  gloom. 
Kissing  the  rose  she  gave  me  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  shaping  faithful  record  of  the  glance 
That  graced  the  giving — such  a  noise  of  life 
Swarm'd  in  the  golden  present,  such  a  voice 
Call'd  to  me  from  the  years  to  come,  and  such 
A  length  of  bright  horizon  rimm'd  the  dark. 
And  all  that  night  I  heard  the  watchmen  peal 
The  sliding  season:  all  that  night  I  heard 
The  heavy  clocks  knolling  the  drowsy  hours. 
The  drowsy  hours,  dispensers  of  all  good. 
O'er  the  mute  city  stole  with  folded  wiugs, 
Distilling  odors  on  me  as  they  went 
To  greet  their  fairer  sisters  of  the  East   • 

Love  at  first  sight,  first-born,  and  heir  to  all. 
Made  this  night  thus.    Henceforward  squall  nor  storm 
Could  keep  me  from  that  Eden  where  she  dwelu 
Light  pretexts  drew  me:  sometimes  a  Dutch  love 
For  tulips ;  then  for  roses,  moss  or  musk. 
To  grace  my  city-rooms:  or  fruits  and  cream 
Served  in  the  weeping  elm;  and  more  and  more 
A  word  could  bring  the  color  to  my  cheek ; 
A  thought  would  fill  my  eyes  with  happy  dew; 
Love  trebled  life  within  me,  and  with  each 
The  year  increased. 

The  daughters  of  the  year, 
One  after  one,  thro'  that  still  garden  pass'd: 
Each  garlanded  with  her  peculiar  flower 
Danced  into  light,  and  died  into  the  shade: 
And  each  in  passing  touch'd  with  some  new  grace 
Or  seem'd  to  touch  her,  so  that  day  by  day, 
Like  one  that  never  can  be  wholly  known. 
Her  beauty  grew;  till  Antumn  brought  an  hour 
For  Eustace,  when  I  beard  bis  deep  "I  will," 
Breathed,  like  the  covenant  of  a  Qod,  to  hold 
From  thence  thro'  all  the  worlds;  bnt  I  rose  np 
Full  of  his  bliss,  and  following  her  dark  eyes 
Felt  earth  as  air  beneath  me,  till  I  reach'd 
The  wicket-gate,  and  found  her  sUmding  there. 

There  sat  we  down  upon  a  garden  mound. 
Two  motoally  enfolded ;  Love,  the  third. 
Between  as,  in  the  circle  of  bis  arms 
Eiiwound  us  both ;  and  over  many  a  range 
Of  waning  lime  the  gray  cathedral  towers, 
Across  a  hazy  glimmer  of  the  west, 
Reveal'd  their  shining  window*:  trom  them  clash'd 
Tbe  bells;  we  llsten'd;  with  the  time  we  play'd; 
We  spoke  of  other  things ;  we  coursed  about 
The  subject  most  at  heart,  more  near  and  near. 
Like  doves  about  a  dovecote,  wheeling  round 
The  central  wish,  until  we  settled  there. 

Then,  in  that  time  and  place,  I  spoke  to  her, 
Requiring,  tho'  I  knew  it  was  mine  own, 
Yet  for  tbe  pleasure  that  I  took  to  hear. 
Requiring  at  her  hand  tbe  greatest  gift, 
A  woman's  heart,  the  heart  of  her  I  loved ; 
.\nd  in  that  time  and  place  she  answer'd  me. 
And  in  the  compass  of  three  little  words. 
More  musical  than  ever  came  in  one, 
The  silver  fragments  of  a  broken  voice. 
Made  me  most  happy,  faltering  "  I  am  thine." 

Shall  I  cease  here?    Is  this  enough  to  say 
That  my  desire,  like  all  strongest  hopes, 
By  its  own  energy  ftalfill'd  itself, 
Merged  in  completion  ?    Would  you  learn  at  ftiU 
How  passion  rose  thro'  circumstantial  grades 
Beyond  all  grades  develop'df  and  indeed 
I  had  not  stayed  so  long  to  tell  you  all. 
But  while  I  mused  came  Memory  with  sad  eyes. 
Holding  the  folded  annals  of  my  youth ; 
And  while  I  mused.  Love  with  knit  brows  went  by. 
And  with  a  flying  finger  swept  my  lips, 
And  spake,  "Be  wise:  not  easily  forgiven 
Are  those,  who,  setting  wide  the  doors  that  bar 
The  secret  bridal  chambers  of  the  heart. 
Let  in  the  day."    Here,  then,  my  words  have  end. 

Yet  might  I  tell  of  meetings,  of  farewells— 


DORA. 


40 


Of  that  which  came  batween,  mor«  fweot  than  web, 
In  whttpera,  llkt  tho  whiipcra  of  the  Imtm 
That  trembltt  rttand  a  ulcbtlnKnlc— In  atgha 
Which  jxTlVtct  Joy,  pcrplcx'd  for  iittrniDC«, 
Stole  from  her  alutcr  Sorrow.    Ml|;ht  I  not  tell 
Of  dlfltovace,  racuucllemant,  pl«d|tea  given, 
And  Towa,  where  there  wm  never  need  of  Towa, 
And  kluen.  where  the  heart  on  one  wild  leap 
Ilunjt  tranced  (him  all  pulutlon,  a*  aboTe 
The  beavena  between  thoir  fHlry  fleece*  pale 
Sow'd  all  their  myatlc  iculfa  with  flecUng  stare; 
Or  while  tho  balmy  glooming,  crcKeut-lit, 
Spread  the  light  base  along  the  rlvernihorce, 
And  In  the  boKows ;  or  as  once  we  met 
Unbcedftil,  tho'  beneath  a  whispering  rain 
Nl);bt  slid  down  one  long  atream  of  sighing  wind, 
And  in  her  boKom  l>ore  the  baby,  Sleep. 

But  thU  whole  hour  yonr  eyes  have  been  intent 
On  that  veil'd  picture— veil'd,  for  what  it  holds 
May  not  be  dwelt  on  by  the  common  day. 
This  prelude  has  prepared  thee.    Raise  thy  soul ; 
Make  thine  heart  ready  with  thine  eyes ;  the  time 
Is  come  to  raise  the  veil. 

Behold  her  there, 
As  I  beheld  her  ere  she  knew  my  heart, 
My  first,  last  love ;  the  idol  of  my  youth, 
The  darling  of  my  manhood,  and,  alax  ! 
Now  the  most  blesiscd  memory  uf  mine  age. 


DORA. 

With  farmer  Allan  at  the  form  abode 
William  and  Dora.    William  was  hiR  eon, 
And  she  his  niece.    He  often  look'd  at  them, 
And  often  thought  "  I'll  make  them  mau  and  wife." 
Now  Dora  felt  her  ancle's  will  in  all. 
And  yeam'd  towards  William ;  but  the  youth,  because 
He  bad  l>cen  always  with  her  in  the  house, 
Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 
>Vtaen  Allan  call'd  bis  sou,  and  said,  '.'My  son: 
1  married  late,  but  I  would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  l>efore  I  die: 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora ;  she  is  well 
To  look  to;  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter:  he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and  he  died 
In  foreign  lands;  but  for  his  sake  I  bred 
His  daughter  Dora ;  take  her  for  your  wife ; 
For  I  have  wish'd  this  marriage,  night  and  day, 
For  many  years."    But  William  answer'd  short : 
"I  cannot  marry  Dora;  by  my  life, 
I  will  not  marry  Dora."    Then  the  old  man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled  np  his  hands,  and  said : 
"  You  will  not,  l)oy  !  you  dare  to  answer  thus  1 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was  law. 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.    Look  to  it: 
Consider,  William :  take  a  month  to  think. 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish ; 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  yon  shall  pack. 
And  never  more  darken  my  doors  again." 
But  William  answer'd  madly ;  bit  his  lipe, 
And  broke  away.    The  more  he  look'd  at  her 
The  less  be  liked  her;  and  his  ways  were  harsh; 
Bnt  Dora  bore  them  meekly.    Then  before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's  house. 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the  fields; 
And  half  i"  love,  half  spite,  he  woo'd  oud  wed 
A  laborer  s  danghter,  Mary  Morrison. 

Thea  when  the  liells  were  ringing,  Allan  call'd 
His  niece  and  said :  "  My  girl,  I  love  yon  well : 
Bnt  if  yon  speak  with  him  that  was  my  son. 
Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his  wife. 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.    My  will  Is  law." 


And  Dor*  promised,  being  meek.    She  thought, 
"It  cannot  be:  my  nncle'a  mlod  will  change!" 

And  days  went  on,  and  there  waa  born  a  b<>y 
To  William ;  then  distresses  came  on  him ; 
And  day  by  day  he  paas'd  his  (htber's  gate. 
Heart-broken,  and  his  flither  help'd  him  not. 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could  save, 
And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they  know 
Who  sent  it ;  till  at  last  a  fever  seiied 
On  William,  and  In  harvest  time  he  died. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.    Mary  aat 
And  look'd  with  teara  upon  her  l>oy,  and  thought 
Hard  things  of  Dora.    Dora  came  and  said : 

"  I  have  obey'd  my  uncle  until  now. 
And  I  have  sinn'd,  for  It  was  all  thro'  me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first 
iiut,  Mury,  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone, 
And  for  your  sake,  tho  woman  that  he  chose. 
And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  yoa; 
You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five  years 
So  fhll  a  har%-cBt :  let  mo  take  the  boy. 
And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 
Among  the  wheat ;  that  when  his  heart  la  glad 
Of  the  full  har^'est,  he  may  sec  the  boy. 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone." 

And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went  her  way 
Acrosa  the  wheat,  and  sat  niK>n  a  mound 
That  was  unsown,  where  many  (Kippics  g^w. 
Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
And  spied  her  not ;  bnt  none  of  all  his  men 
Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the  child; 
.\nd  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to  him, 
But  her  heart  fail'd  her ;  and  the  reapers  reap'd. 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

Bnt  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose  and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  npon  the  mound; 
And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his  hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's  eye. 
Then  when  the  farmer  pass'd  into  the  field 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work. 
And  came  and  said:  "Where  were  you  yesterday? 
Whose  child  is  that?    What  are  yon  doing  herer" 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
And  answer'd  softly,  "This  is  William's  child!" 
"And  did  I  not,"  said  Allan,  "did  I  not 
Forbid  you,  Dora  T"    Dora  said  again, 
"Do  with  me  as  yon  will,  but  take  the  child 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone  !" 
And  Allan  said,  "I  see  it  Is  a  trick 
Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there. 
I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you ! 
You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you  dared 
To  slight  it.    Well— for  I  will  Uke  the  boy : 
Bnt  go  yon  hence,  and  never  see  me  more." 

So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried  aloud 
And  struggled  hard.    The  wreath  of  flowers  fell 
At  Dora's  feet    She  bow'd  upon  her  bauds, 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the  fleld. 
More  and  more  distant    She  bow'd  down  her  head, 
Remembering  the  day  when  first  she  came. 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.    She  bow'd  dow:i 
And  wept  in  secret ;  and  the  reapers  reap'd. 
And  the  snn  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary's  house,  and  stood 
Upon  the  threshold.    Mary  saw  the  boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.    She  broke  out  in  praise 
To  Ood,  that  help'd  her  in  her  Mridowhood. 
And  Dora  said,  "  My  uncle  took  the  boy ; 
Bnt,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  yon : 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more." 
Then  answer'd  Mary,  "This  shall  never  be. 
That  thou  sbouldst  take  my  trouble  on  thyself: 
And  now  I  think,  be  shall  not  have  the  boy. 
For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to  slight 
His  mother :  therefore  thon  and  I  will  go 
.\nd  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him  home ; 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back: 


50 


A  (IDLE  Y  COURT.— WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 


But  If  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 
Then  thou  and  I  will  live  within  one  house, 
And  work  for  William's  child,  until  he  grows 
Of  age  to  help  us." 

So  the  women  kiss'd 
Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reach'd  the  farm. 
The  door  was  off  the  latch :  they  peep'd,  and  saw 
The  boy  set  up  betwLxt  his  grandsire's  kneee, 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arm, 
And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the  cheeks. 
Like  one  that  loved  him;  and  the  lad  stretcb'd  out 
And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal,  that  hung 
Prom  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by  the  fire. 
Then  they  came  in :  but  when  the  boy  beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her : 
And  Allan  set  him  down,  and  Mary  said : 
"  O  Father— if  you  let  me  call  you  so — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself. 
Or  William,  or  this  child ;  but  now  I  come 
For  Dora :  take  her  back ;  she  loves  you  well. 

0  Sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at  peace 
With  all  men ;  for  I  ask'd  him,  and  he  said, 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me — 

1  had  been  a  patient  wife:  but.  Sir,  he  said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father  thus: 

'  Qod  bless  him  1'  he  said, '  and  may  he  never  know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  thro' !'    Then  he  turn'd 
His  face  and  pass'd— unhappy  that  I  am  1 
But  now.  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for  yoo 
Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn  to  slight 
His  father's  memory ;   and  take  Dora  back. 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before." 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.    There  was  silence  in  the  room; 
And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  In  sobs: 

"  I  have  been  to  blame— to  blame.     I  hare  kill'd 
my  son. 
I  have  kill'd  him— but  I  loved  him— my  dear  son. 
May  Qod  forgive  me !— I  have  been  to  blame. 
Kiss  me,  my  children." 

Then  they  clung  about 
The  old  man's  neck,  and  kins'd  him  many  times. 
And  all  the  man  w$ks  broken  with  remorse; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundred  fold : 
And  for  three  hours  he  sobb'd  o'er  William's  child, 
Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 
Within  one  house  together;  and  as  years 
Went  forward,  Mary  took  another  mate; 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 


AUDLEY  COURT. 

"ToK  Ball,  the  Fleece  are  cramm'd,  and  not  a  room 
For  love  or  money.    Let  us  picnic  there 
At  Audley  Court." 

I  spoke,  while  Andley  feast 
Humm'd  like  a  hive  all  round  the  narrow  quay. 
To  Francis,  with  a  basket  on  his  arm. 
To  Francis  just  alighted  from  the  boat, 
And  breathing  of  the  sea,     "  With  all  my  heart," 
Said  Francis.    Then  we  shoulder'd  thro'  the  swarm, 
And  rounded  by  the  stillness  of  the  beach 
To  where  the  bay  runs  np  its  latest  horn. 

We  left  the  dying  ebb  that  faintly  lipp'd 
The  flat  red  granite ;  so  by  many  a  sweep 
Of  meadow  smooth  from  aftermath  we  reach'd 
The  griflSn-giiarded  gates,  and  pass'd  thro'  all 
The  pillar'd  dusk  of  sounding  sycamores. 
And  cross'd  the  garden  to  the  gardener's  lodge. 
With  all  its  casements  bedded,  and  its  walls 
And  chimneys  muffled  in  the  leafy  vine. 

There  on  a  slope  of  orchard,  Francis  laid 
A  damask  napkin  wrought  with  horse  and  hound, 
Brought  ont  a  dusky  loaf  that  smelt  of  home. 
And,  half-cnt-down,  a  pasty  costly  made. 


Where  quail  and  pigeon,  lark  and  leveret  lay, 
Like  fossils  of  the  rock,  with  golden  yolks 
Imbedded  and  injellied ;  last,  with  these, 
A  flask  of  cider  from  his  father's  vats. 
Prime,  which  I  knew;  and  so  we  sat  and  eat 
And  talk'd  old  matters  over:  who  was  dead. 
Who  married,  who  was  like  to  be,  and  how 
The  races  went,  and  who  would  rent  the  hall : 
Then  touch'd  upon  the  game,  how  scarce  it  was 
This  season  ;  glancing  thence,  discuss'd  the  farm. 
The  fourfield  system,  and  the  price  of  grain  ; 
And  struck  upon  the  corn-laws,  where  we  split. 
And  came  again  together  on  the  king 
With  heated  faces;  till  he  laugh'd  aloud; 
And,  while  the  blackbird  on  the  pippin  hung 
To  hear  him,  clapt  his  hand  in  mine  and  sang: 

"  O,  who  would  flght   and  march  and  counter- 
march. 
Be  shot  for  sixpence  in  a  battle-field. 
And  shovell'd  np  into  a  bloody  trench 
Where  no  one  knows  f  but  let  me  live  my  life. 

"O,  who  would  cast  and  balance  at  a  desk, 
Perch'd  like  a  crow  upon  a  three-legg'd  stool. 
Till  all  his  Juice  is  dried,  and  all  his  Joints 
Are  full  of  chalk  f  but  let  me  live  my  life. 

"  Who'd  serve  the  state  f  for  if  I  carved  my  n&me 
Upon  the  clifTs  that  guard  my  native  land, 
I  might  as  well  have  traced  It  in  the  sands ; 
The  sea  wastes  all :  but  let  me  live  my  life. 

"O,  who  would  lovef    I  woo'd  a  woman  once, 
But  she  was  sharper  than  an  eastern  wind. 
And  all  my  heart  turn'd  from  her,  as  a  thorn 
Turns  from  the  sea :  but  let  me  live  my  life." 

He  sang  bis  song,  and  I  replied  with  mine: 
I  found  it  in  a  volume,  all  of  songs, 
Knock'4  down  to  me,  when  old  Sir  Robert's  pride. 
His  books— the  more  the  pity,  so  I  said— 
Came  to  the  hammer  here  in  March— and  this — 
I  set  the  words,  and  added  names  I  knew. 

"  Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  sleep,  and  dream  of  me : 
Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  thy  sister's  arm. 
And  sleeping,  haply  dream  her  arm  is  mine. 

"  Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  In  Emilia's  arm ; 
Emilia,  foirerthan  all  else  but  thou, 
For  thou  art  fairer  than  all  else  that  Is. 

"  Sleep,  breathing   health  and   peace  npon  her 
breast, 
Sleep,  breathing  love  and  trust  against  her  lip : 
I  go  to-night:  I  come  to-morrow  mom. 

"  I  go,  but  I  return :  I  would  I  were 
The  pilot  of  the  darkness  and  the  dream. 
Sleeps  Ellen  Aubrey,  love,  and  dream  of  me." 

So  sang  we  each  to  either,  Francis  EUile, 
The  farmer's  son  who  lived  across  the  bay, 
My  friend ;  and  I,  that  having  wherewithal, 
And  in  the  fallow  leisure  of  my  life. 
Did  what  I  would :  but  ere  the  night  we  rose 
And  sannter'd  home  beneath  a  moon,  that.  Just 
In  crescent,  dimly  rain'd  about  the  leaf 
Twilights  of  airy  sliver,  till  we  reach'd 
The  limit  of  the  hills ;  and  as  we  sank 
From  rock  to  rock  npon  the  glooming  qnay. 
The  town  was  hnsh'd  beneath  ns :  lower  down 
The  bay  was  oily-calm ;  the  harbor-buoy 
With  one  green  sparkle  ever  and  anon 
Dipt  by  ItseU^  and  we  were  glad  at  heart 


WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 

John.     I  'm  glad  I  walk'd.     How  fresh  the  mead- 
ows look 
Above  the  river,  and,  but  a  month  ago. 
The  whole  hillside  was  redder  than  a  fox. 
Is  yon  plantation  where  this  byway  Joins 
The  turnpike  f 

James.  Yes. 


EDWIN  MORRIS. 


01 


John.  And  when  doM  thta  oonM  by  f 

JatHM.    The  nudlT    At  one  o'clock. 

John.  What  U  It  nowr 

Jemm.    A  qnarter  to. 

jokm,  Whoee  honse  la  that  I  aee  ? 

No,  not  the  County  Member's  with  the  vane  { 
Up  higher  with  the  yewtree  by  it,  and  half 
A  score  of  gablea. 

Jtaut.  Thatr    8ir  Edward  Head's: 

Bat  he  "a  abroad :  the  place  la  to  )>«  sold. 

John.    O,  his.    Ho  was  not  broken. 

Jmmm.  No,  sir,  he, 

Vez'd  with  a  morbid  devil  In  his  blood 
That  veil'd  the  world  with  Jaundice,  hid  his  fltce 
From  all  men,  and  commercing  with  himself, 
He  loet  the  sense  that  handles  dally  lin»— 
That  keeps  ns  all  in  order  more  or  loss— 
And  sick  of  heme  went  orerseas  for  change. 

John,    And  whither  t 

Jtma.    Nay,  who  knows  f  he's  here  and  there. 
Bat  let  him  go ;  his  devil  goes  with  him. 
As  well  as  with  bis  tenant,  Jocky  Dawca. 

JoKn.    Wliat's  tbatt 

Jamtt.    Yon  aaw  the  man— on  Monday,  was  it  f — 
There  by  the  hnmpback'd  willow :  half  stands  np 
And  bristles:  half  has  raH'n  and  made  a  bridge; 
And  there  be  caught  the  yonnker  tickling  trout- 
Caught  in  /o^ran/c— what's  the  Latin  word  f— 
Daieto:  but  hia  honse,  for  so  they  say, 
Was  haunted  with  a  Jolly  ghost,  that  shook 
The  curtains,  whined  in  lobbies,  Upt  at  doors. 
And  rummaged  like  a  rat:  no  servants  stay'd : 
The  fanner  vext  packs  np  his  beds  and  chairs. 
And  all  his  household  stuff:  and  with  this  boy 
Betwixt  bis  knees,  his  wife  upon  the  tilt. 
Sets  oat,  and  meets  a  friend  who  hails  him,  "  What ! 
Yon  're    flitting !"    "  Yea,  we  're   flitting,"  says    the 

ghost, 
(For  they  had  pack'd  the  thing  among  the  beds,) 
"O  well,"  says  he,  "you  flitting  with  us  too — 
Jack,  torn  the  horses'  heads  and  home  again." 

John.    He  left  hU  wife  behind :  for  so  I  heard. 

JamM.    He  left  her,  yes.    I  met  my  lady  once : 
A  woman  like  a  butt,  and  harsh  as  crabe. 

John.    O  yet  but  I  remember,  ten  years  back— 
T  is  now  at  least  ten  years — and  then  she  was — 
You  could  not  light  upon  a  sweeter  thing: 
A  body  slight  and  round,  and  like  a  pear 
In  growing,  modest  eyes,  a  hand,  a  foot 
Lessening  in  perfect  cadence,  and  a  ekin 
As  clean  and  white  as  privet  when  it  flowers. 

Jamea.    Ay,  ay,  the  blossom  fades,  and  they  that 
loved 
At  flrst  like  dove  and  dove  were  cat  and  dog. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  cottager, 
Ont  of  her  sphere.    What  betwixt  shame  and  pride, 
Mew  things  and  old,  himself  and  her,  she  sour'd 
To  what  she  is:  a  nature  never  kind  I 
Like  men,  like  manners:  like  breeds  like,  they  say. 
Kind  nature  is  the  best:  those  manners  next 
That  flt  us  like  a  nature  second-hand ; 
Which  are  indeed  the  manners  of  the  great 

John,    But  I  had  heard  it  was  this  bill  that  past, 
And  fear  of  change  at  home,  that  drove  him  hence. 

Jatnea.    That  was  the  last  drop  in  bis  cup  of  gall. 
I  once  was  near  him,  when  his  bailiff  brought 
A  Chartist  pike.    Yon  should  have  seen  him  wince 
As  from  a  venomous  thing;  be  thought  himself 
A  mark  for  all,  and  shudder'd,  lest  a  cry 
Should  break  his  sleep  by  night,  and  his  nice  eyes 
Should  see  the  raw  mechanic's  bloody  thumbs 
Sweat  on  bis  blazon'd  chairs :  bnt,  sir,  yon  know 
That  these  two  parties  still  divide  the  world— 
Of  those  that  want,  and  those  that  have:  and  still 
The  same  old  sore  breaks  ont  from  age  to  age 
With  much  the  same  resnlt.    Now  I  myseli; 
A  Tory  to  the  quick,  was  as  a  boy 

Destructive,  when  I  had  not  what  I  would. 


I  waa  at  achool— a  college  tn  the  Soath  i 
There  lived  a  flayflint  near:  we  atole  hIa  fhiit, 
HIa  hena,  his  eggs;  bat  there  WM  law  (tor  im; 
We  paid  In  person.    He  had  a  aow,  air.    She, 
With  meditative  grants  of  mnch  content. 
Lay  great  with  pig,  wallowing  in  aan  and  mud. 
By  night  we  dragg'd  her  to  the  oollefe  tower 
Prom  her  warm  bed,  and  up  the  corkaerew  stair 
With  hand  and  rope  we  haled  the  groaning  sow. 
And  on  the  leads  we  kept  ber  till  she  pigg'd. 
I^rge  range  of  pros|)ect  had  the  mother  aow, 
And  bnt  for  daily  loss  of  one  she  loved. 
As  one  by  one  we  took  them- bnt  for  this — 
As  never  aow  was  higher  in  this  world- 
Might  have  been  happy:  but  what  lot  is  pure? 
We  took  them  all,  till  she  was  left  alone 
Upon  her  lower,  the  N  loins  of  swine. 
And  so  rolurn'd  unfarrow'd  to  her  sty. 

John.    They  found  yoa  out? 

Jamu,  Not  they. 

John.  Well— after  all— 

What  know  we  of  the  secret  of  a  man  1 
Hia   nerves  were  wrong.     What  ails  ns,  who  are 

sound. 
That  we  should  mimic  this  raw  fool  the  world. 
Which  charts  us  all  in  its  coarse  black*  or  whites, 
As  ruthless  as  a  baby  with  a  worm, 
As  cruel  as  a  schoolboy  ere  he  grows 
To  Pity— more  from  ignorance  than  will. 

But  put  your  best  foot  forward,  or  I  fear 
That  we  shall  mlMs  the  mail :  and  here  it  come«< 
With  five  at  top:  as  quaint  a  four-in-hand 
As  you  shall  see— three  piebalds  and  a  roan. 


EDWIN  MORRIS;  OR,  THE  LAKE. 

O  ME,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake. 
My  sweet,  wild,  fresh  three  quarters  of  a  year, 
My  one  Oasis  in  the  dust  and  drouth 
Of  city  life ;  I  was  a  sketcher  then : 
See  here,  my  doing :  curves  of  mountain,  bridge. 
Boat,  island,  roins  of  a  castle,  built 
When  men  knew  how  to  build,  upon  a  rock. 
With  turrets  lichen-gilded  like  a  rock : 
And  here,  new-comers  in  an  ancient  hold. 
New-comers  from  the  Mersey,  millionnaires, 
Here  lived  the  Hills— a  Tudor-chimneyed  bulk 
Of  mellow  brickwork  on  an  isle  of  bowers. 

O  mc,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake 
With  Edwin  Morris  and  with  Edward  Bull 
The  curate;  he  was  fatter  than  his  cure. 

But  Edwin  Morris,  he  that  knew  the  name^, 
Long  learned  names  of  agaric,  moss,  and  fern, 
WTio  forged  a  thousand  theories  of  the  rocks. 
Who  taught  me  how  to  skate,  to  row,  to  swim. 
Who  read  me  rhymes  elaborately  good, 
His  own— I  call'd  him  Crichton,  for  he  seem'd 
All-perfect,  flnish'd  to  the  Anger  nail. 

And  once  I  ask'd  him  of  his  early  life. 
And  his  first  passion :  and  he  answer'd  me ; 
And  well  his  words  became  him :  was  he  not 
A  fuU-cell'd  honeycomb  of  eloquence 
Stored  from  all  flowers?    Poet-like  he  spoke. 

"My  love  for  Nature  is  as  old  as  I; 
But  thirty  moons,  one  honeymoon  to  that. 
And  thrpe  rich  sennights  more,  my  love  for  her. 
My  love  for  Natnre  and  my  love  for  her. 
Of  different  ages,  like  twin-sisters  grew. 
Twin-sisters  differently  beautifbl. 
To  some  foil  mnsic  rose  and  sank  the  sun. 
And  some  full  music  seem'd  to  move  and  change 


52 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 


With  all  the  varied  changes  of  the  dark, 
And  either  twilijjht  and  the  day  between; 
For  daily  hope  fulflll'd,  to  rise  again 
Revolving  toward  fulfilment,  made  it  sweet 
To  walk,  to  sit,  to  sleep,  to  breathe,  to  wake." 

Or  this  or  something  like  to  this  he  spoke. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward  Bull  : 

"  I  take  It,  God  made  the  woman  for  the  man, 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the  world. 
A  pretty  face  is  well,  and  this  is  well. 
To  have  a  dame  indoors,  that  trims  us  up, 
And  keeps  ns  tight;  but  these  unreal  ways 
Seem  but  the  theme  of  writers,  and  indeed 
Worn  threadbare.    Man  is  made  of  solid  stafll 
I  say,  God  made  the  woman  for  the  man. 
And  for  the  good  and  Increase  of  the  world." 

"  Parson,"  said  I,  "  yon  pitch  the  pipe  too  low : 
But  I  have  sudden  touches,  and  can  run 
My  faith  beyond  my  practice  into  hise 
Tho'  if,  in  dancing  after  Letty  Hill, 
I  do  not  hear  the  bells  n|>on  my  cap, 
I  scarce  hear  other  music:  yet  say  on. 
What  should  one  give  to  light  on  such  a  dream?" 
I  ask'd  him  half-sardouically. 

"Give? 
Give  all  thon  art,"  he  answer'd,  and  a  light 
Of  laughter  dimpled  in  his  swarthy  cheek ; 
"I  would  have  hid  her  needle  in  my  heart. 
To  save  her  little  finger  from  a  scratch 
No  deeper  than  the  skin:  my  ears  could  hear 
Her  lightest  breaths:  her  least  remark  was  worth 
The  experience  of  the  wise.    I  went  and  came; 
Her  voice  fied  always  thro'  the  anmrner  land ; 
1  spoke  her  name  alone.    Thrice-happy  days  I 
The  flower  of  each,  those  momenta  when  we  met. 
The  crown  of  all,  we  met  to  part  no  more." 

Were  not  his  words  dellcions,  I  a  beast 
To  take  them  as  I  did  ?  but  something  Jarr'd : 
Whether  he  spoke  too  largely;  that  there  aeem'd 
A  touch  of  something  false,  some  aelf-conceit. 
Or  over-smoothness:  howso'er  It  waa, 
He  scarcely  hit  my  humor,  and  I  said: 

"  Friend  Edwin,  do  not  think  yourself  alone 
Of  all  men  happy.    Shall  not  Love  to  me. 
As  in  the  Latin  song  I  learnt  at  school. 
Sneeze  out  a  hill  God-bless-yon  right  and  left? 
But  yon  can  talk:  yonrs  is  a  kindly  vein: 
I  have,  I  think,— Heaven  knows — as  much  within; 
Have,  or  should  have,  but  for  a  thought  or  two. 
That  like  a  purple  beech  among  the  greens 
Looks  out  of  place :  't  is  from  no  want  in  her : 
It  is  my  shyness,  or  my  eelf-dlstrnst. 
Or  something  of  a  wayward  modern  mind 
Dissecting  passion.    Time  will  set  me  right" 

So  spoke  I  knowing  not  the  things  that  were. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward  Bull : 
"  God  made  the  woman  for  the  use  of  man. 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the  world." 
And  I  and  Edwin  Inugh'd ;  and  now  we  paused 
.\bout  the  windings  of  the  marge  to  hear 
The  soft  wind  blowing  over  meadowy  holms 
.\nd  alders,  srarden-isles ;  and  now  we  left 
The  clerk  behind  us,  I  and  he,  and  ran 
By  ripply  shallows  of  the  lisping  lake. 
Delighted  with  the  f^shness  and  the  soimd. 

But,  when  the  bracken  rusted  on  their  crags. 
My  suit  had  wither'd,  nipt  to  death  by  him 
That  was  a  God,  and  is  a  lawyer's  clerk, 
The  rentroU  Cupid  of  our  rainy  isles. 
'Tis  true,  we  met ;  one  hour  I  had,  no  more : 
She  sent  a  note,  the  seal  an  Elle  vous  suit, 


The  close  "  Your  Letty,  only  yours ;"  and  this 
Thrice  underscored.    The  friendly  mist  of  morn 
Clung  to  the  lake.    I  boated  over,  ran 
My  craft  aground,  and  heard  with  beating  heart 
The  Sweet-Gale  rustle  round  the  shelving  keel: 
And  out  I  slept,  and  up  I  crept ;  she  moved, 
Like  Proserpine  in  Enna,  gathering  flowers: 
Then  low  and  sweet  I  whistled  thrice;  and  she, 
She   tnm'd,  we  closed,  we   kiss'd,  swore   faith,  I 

breathed 
In  some  new  planet:  a  silent  cousin  stole 
Upon  us  and  departed :  "  Leave,"  she  cried, 

"O  leave  me!"    "Never,  dearest,  never:  here 
I  brave  the  worst:"  and  while  we  stood  like  fools 
Embracing,  all  at  once  a  score  of  pugs 
And  poodles  yell'd  within,  and  out  they  came 
Trustees  and  Aunts  and  Uncles.    "  What,  with  him  !" 
"Go"  (shrill'd  the  cottonspluning  chorus)  "him  I" 
I  choked.    Again  they  shriek'd  the  burthen  "  Him  '." 
Again  with  bands  of  wild  rejection  "Go!— 
Girl,  get  you  in  !"    She  went— and  in  one  month 
They  wedded  her  to  sixty  thousand  pounds, 
To  lands  In  Kent  and  messuages  in  York, 
And  slight  Sir  Robert  with  his  watery  smile 
And  educated  whisker.    But  for  me, 
They  set  an  ancient  creditor  to  work: 
It  seems  I  broke  a  close  with  force  and  arms: 
There  came  a  mystic  token  (him  the  king 
To  greet  the  sheriff;  needless  courtesy  1 
I  read,  and  fled  by  night,  and  flying  tum'd : 
Her  taper  gllmmer'd  in  the  lake  below: 
I  tnm'd  once  more,  close  bntton'd  to  the  storm ; 
So  left  the  place,  left  Edwin,  nor  have  seen 
Him  since,  nor  heard  of  her,  nor  cared  to  hear. 

Nor  cared  to  bear?  perhaps:  yet  long  ago 
I  have  pardon'd  little  Letty:  not  indeed. 
It  may  be,  for  her  own  dear  sake  but  this. 
She  seems  a  part  of  those  fresh  days  to  me ; 
For  in  the  diut  and  drouth  of  London  life 
She  moves  among  my  visions  of  the  lake, 
While  the  prime  swallow  dips  his  wing,  or  then 
While  the  gold-lily  blows,  and  overhead 
The  light  dond  smoulders  on  the  summer  crag. 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 

Ai.Tno*  I  be  the  basest  of  mankind. 
From  scalp  to  sole  one  slough  and  crust  of  sin, 
Unflt  for  earth,  unflt  for  heaven,  scarce  meet 
For  troops  of  devils,  mad  with  blasphemy, 
I  will  not  cease  to  grasp  the  hope  I  hold 
Of  ssintdom,  and  to  clamor,  mourn,  and  sob. 
Battering  the  gates  of  heaven  with  storms  of  prayer, 
Have  mercy.  Lord,  and  take  away  my  sin. 

Let  this  avail.  Just,  dreadful,  mighty  Ood, 
This  not  be  all  In  vain,  that  thrice  ten  years, 
Thrice  mnltiplied  by  sujierhuman  pangs. 
In  hungers  and  in  thirsts,  fevers  and  cold. 
In    coughs,  aches,   stitches,   ulcerous    throes    and 

cramps, 
A  sign  betwixt  the  meadow  and  the  cloud, 
Patient  on  this  tall  pillar  I  have  borne 
Rain,  wind,  frost,  heat,  hail,  damp,  and  sleet,  and 

snow; 
And  I  had  hoped  that  ere  this  period  closed 
Thou  wonldst  have  caught  me  up  into  thy  rest. 
Denying  not  these  weather-beaten  limbs 
The  meed  of  saints,  the  white  robe  and  the  palm. 

O  take  the  meaning.  Lord :  I  do  not  breathe. 
Not  whisper  any  murmur  of  complaint. 
Pain  heap'd  ten-hundred-fold  to  this,  were  still 
Less  burthen,  by  ten-hundred-fold,  to  bear, 
Than  were  those  lead-like  tons  of  sin,  that  cmsh'd 
My  spirit  flat  before  thee. 

O  Lord,  Lord, 
Thou  knowest  I  bore  this  better  at  the  first, 


ST.  SIBfEON  8TYLITBS. 


88 


For  I  WM  •troDg  and  hale  of  txKly  thon  i 
And  (ho'  my  tMtb,  which  now  nr«  drupt  away, 
Would  chatter  with  the  cold,  and  all  my  baard 
Waa  tagg*d  with  Icy  Mngw  iu  tho  moon, 
I  drown'd  the  whooptnga  of  the  owl  with  aoond 
or  ploua  hymna  and  paalma,  and  aometlmaa  aaw 
An  angel  stand  and  watch  me,  a*  I  aang. 
Now  am  I  Aseble  grown ;  my  end  draws  nigh ; 
I  hope  my  end  draws  nigh :  half  dMf  I  am, 
So  that  I  acarce  can  hear  the  people  ham 
Aboat  the  eolomn's  base,  and  nlnuMt  blind, 
And  acarce  can  recognise  the  floldK  I  know ; 
And  both  my  thighs  are  rutted  with  tho  dew; 
Yet  cease  I  not  to  clamor  and  to  cry. 
While  my  stiff  spine  can  hold  ray  weary  head. 
Till  all  my  limbs  drop  piecemeal  from  tho  stone. 
Hare  mercy,  merry :  take  away  my  sin. 

0  Jeans,  if  thou  wilt  uol  save  my  soul. 
Who  may  be  savedt  who  is  it  may  he  saved? 
Who  may  be  made  a  saint,  if  I  fall  here  T 
Show  nic  tho  mau  hath  e>uffer'd  moro  than  I. 
For  did  not  nil  thy  niartyn)  die  one  dcuth  ? 
For  cither  they  were  stoned,  or  crucltlcd, 

Or  bnm'd  in  Are,  or  boil'd  iu  oil,  or  sawn 
In  twain  beneath  tho  ribs ;  but  I  die  here 
To-day,  and  whole  years  long,  a  life  of  deAh. 
Bear  witness,  if  I  could  b»i$  found  a  way 
(And  heedfaliy  I  sifted  all  my  thnutjht) 
More  slowly-painnil  to  suIkIuo  this  home 
Of  sin,  my  flesh,  which  I  despise  and  hate, 
I  had  not  stinted  practice,  O  my  Oud. 

For  not  alone  this  pillar-punishment. 
Not  this  alone  I  bore:  but  while  I  lived 
In  the  white  convent  down  the  valley  there. 
For  many  weeks  atont  my  loins  I  wore 
The  rope  that  haled  the  buckets  from  the  well, 
Twisted  as  tij^ht  as  I  could  knot  the  noose ; 
And  spake  not  of  it  to  a  single  soul. 
Until  the  nicer,  eating  thro'  my  skin, 
Betray'd  my  secret  penance,  so  that  all 
My  brethren  marvell'd  greatly.    More  than  this 
I  l)ore,  whereof,  O  God,  thou  knowest  all. 

Three  winters,  that  my  soul  might  grow  to  thee, 
I  lived  up  there  on  yonder  mountain  side. 
My  right  leg  chain'd  into  the  crag,  I  lay 
Pent  in  a  roufle£«  close  of  ragged  stones ; 
Inswathed  sometimes  in  wandering  mist,  and  twice 
Black'd  with  thy  branding  thunder,  and  sometimes 
Sucking  the  damps  for  drink,  and  eating  not. 
Except  the  spare  chance-gift  of  those  that  came 
To  touch  my  body  and  be  heai'd,  and  live: 
And  they  say  then  that  I  work'd  miracles, 
Whereof  my  fame  is  loud  amongst  mankind. 
Cured  lameness,  palsies,  cancers.    Thou,  O  Ood, 
Knowest  alone  whether  this  was  or  no. 
Have  mercy,  mercy :  cover  all  my  sin. 

Then,  that  I  might  be  more  alone  with  thee, 
Three  years  I  lived  upon  a  pillar,  high 
Six  cubits,  and  three  years  on  one  of  twelve ; 
And  twice  three  years  I  cronch'd  on  one  that  rose 
Twenty  by  measure ;  last  of  all,  I  grew. 
Twice  ten  long  weary  weary  years  to  this, 
That  numbers  forty  cubits  from  the  soil. 

1  think  that  I  have  liome  as  much  as  this — 
Or  else  I  dream— and  for  so  long  a  time. 

If  I  may  measure  time  by  yon  slow  light. 
And  this  high  dial,  which  my  sorrow  crowns — 
So  much— even  so. 

And  yet  I  know  not  well, 
For  that  the  evil  ones  come  here,  and  say, 
"Fall  down,  O  Simeon:  thon  hast  snffer'd  long 
For  ages  and  for  ages '."  then  they  prate 
Of  penances  I  cannot  have  gone  thro'. 
Perplexing  me  with  lies ;  and  oft  I  tall. 
Maybe  for  months,  in  snch  blind  lethargies, 
That  Heaven,  and  Earth,  and  Time  are  choked. 

But  yet 
Bethink  tbee,  Lord,  whUe  thou  aud  all  the  saints 


Enjoy  themrptvea  In  heaven,  and  men  on  earth 

llouHo  111  tlii<  nhade  of  oomfurtablc  roofl^ 

Sit  with  their  wivea  by  Area,  eat  wholeaome  food. 

And  wear  warm  clothes,  and  even  beaata  have  stalK 

I,  'tween  tho  spring  and  downAtll  of  the  light. 

Bow  down  one  thousand  and  two  hundred  times, 

To  Christ,  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  the  Sainta; 

Or  in  the  night,  after  a  little  Mlccp, 

I  wake:  the  chill  stars  sparkle;  I  am  wet 

With  drenching  dews,  or  stiff  with  crackling  frost, 

I  wear  an  nndress'd  goatskin  on  my  back; 

A  graxing  iron  collar  grinds  my  neck ; 

And  in  my  weak,  lean  arms  I  lift  the  croea. 

And  strive  and  wrestle  with  thee  till  I  die: 

0  mercy,  mercy  1  waah  away  my  sin. 

O  Lord,  thou  knowest  what  a  mau  I  am ; 
A  sinful  man,  conceived  and  born  in  sin : 
Tis  their  own  doing ;  this  is  uono  of  mine : 
Lay  it  not  to  mc.    Am  I  to  blamo  for  this. 
That  here  come  ihoxo  that  worship  me  ?    Uu !  ha  t 
They  think  that  I  am  Homcwhnt.    What  am  I? 
Tho  silly  people  Uiko  mc  for  a  saint, 
.\nd  bring  mo  offerings  of  fruit  and  flowers: 
And  I,  In  truth  (thou  wilt  bc&r  witness  here) 
Have  all  In  all  endured  as  much,  and  more 
Than  many  Just  aud  holy  men,  whose  names 
Are  register'd  and  calcndar'd  for  sainta. 

Good  people,  you  do  ill  to  kneel  to  me. 
What  is  it  I  can  have  done  to  merit  this  1 

1  am  a  sinner  viler  than  yon  alL 

It  may  bo  I  have  wrought  some  miracles, 

And  cured  some  halt  and  malm'd  ;  bnt  what  of  that? 

It  may  be,  no  one,  even  among  the  saints. 

May  match  his  pains  with  mine;  but  what  of  that? 

Yet  do  not  rise:  for  you  may  look  ou  me. 

And  In  your  looking  you  may  kneel  to  God. 

Speak  1  Is  there  any  of  you  halt  or  maim'd  f 

I  think  you  know  I  have  some  power  with  neavcii 

From  my  long  penance :  let  him  speak  his  wish. 

Yes,  I  can  heal  him.    Power  goes  forth  from  me. 
They  say  that  they   are  heai'd.     Ah,  hark  1  they 

shout 
"St.  Simeon  Stylltes."    Why,  if  so, 
God  reaps  a  harvest  in  me.    O  my  soul, 
God  reaps  a  harvest  in  thee.    If  this  be, 
Can  I  work  miracles  and  not  be  saved? 
This  is  not  told  of  any.    They  were  saints. 
It  cannot  be  but  that  I  shall  be  saved ; 
Yea,  crown'd  a  saint    They  shout, "  Behold  a  saint  J" 
And  lower  voices  saint  me  from  above. 
Courage,  St.  Simeon  !    This  dull  chrysalis 
Cracks  into  shining  wings,  and  hope  ere  death 
Spreads  more  and  more  and  more,  that  God  hath  now 
Sponged  and  made  blank  of  crimeful  record  all 
My  mortal  archives. 

O  my  sons,  my  sons, 
T,  Simeon  of  the  pillar,  by  surname 
Stylltes,  among  men ;  I,  Simeon, 
The  watcher  on  the  column  till  the  end ; 
I,  Simeon,  whose  brain  the  sunshine  bakes; 
I,  whose  bald  brows  in  silent  hours  become 
Unnaturally  hoar  wltb  rime,  do  now 
From  my  high  nest  of  penance  here  proclaim 
That  Pontius  and  Iscariot  by  my  side 
Show'd  lii^  fair  seraphs.    On  the  coals  I  lay, 
A  vessel  full  of  sin :  all  hell  beneath 
Made  me  boil  over.    Devils  pluck'd  my  sleeve; 
Abaddon  and  Asmodens  caught  at  me. 
I  smote  them  with  the  cross;  they  swarm'd  again. 
In  bed  like  monstrous  apes  they  cmsh'd  my  chest: 
They  flapp'd  my  light  ont  as  I  read:  I  saw 
Their  faces  grow  between  me  and  my  book: 
With  colt-like  whinny  and  wltb  hoggish  whine 
They  burst  my  prayer.    Yet  this  way  was  left. 
And  by  this  way  I  'scaped  them.    Mortify 
Your  flesh,  like  me,  with  scourges  and  with  thomx ; 
Smite,  shrink  not,  spare  not    If  it  may  be,  fast 
Whole  Lents,  and  pray.    I  hardly,  with  slow  stepo. 


54 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


'Twere  well  to  question  him,  and  try 
If  yet  he  keeps  the  power. 

Hail,  hidden  to  the  knees  in  fern, 

Broad  Oak  of  Somner-chace, 
Whose  topmost  branches  can  discern 

The  roofs  of  Sumner-place ! 

Say  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name, 

If  ever  maid  or  spouee, 
Ajb  fair  as  my  Olivia,  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs.— 

"O  Walter,  I  have  shelter'd  here 

Whatever  maiden  grace 
The  good  old  Summers,  year  by  year, 

Made  ripe  in  Somner-chace: 

"Old  Summers,  when  the  monk  was  fat, 

And,  issuing  shorn  and  sleek. 
Would  twist  bis  girdle  tight,  and  pat 

The  girls  upon  the  cheek, 

"  Ere  yet.  In  scorn  of  Pcter's-pcnce, 
And  number'd  bead  and  shrift. 

Bluff  Harry  broke  into  the  spenoe. 
And  tum'd  the  (^wls  adrift: 

"  And  I  have  seen  some  score  of  those 

Fresh  Csoes  that  would  thrive 
When  his  man-minded  offset  rose 

To  chase  the  deer  at  Ave ; 

"And  all  that  trom  the  town  would  stroll. 
Till  ttiat  wild  wind  made  work 

In  which  the  gloomy  breweifs  sonl 
Went  by  me,  like  a  stork : 

"The  sliglit  sbe-slipa  of  loyal  blood, 

And  others,  passing  praise, 
Strait-laced,  bat  all-too-fall  in  bud 

For  puritanic  stays: 

"And  I  have  shadow'd  many  a  group 

Of  beauties  that  were  bom 
In  teacup-times  of  hood  and  hoop. 

Or  while  the  patch  was  worn ; 

"And,  leg  and  arm  with  love-knots  gay. 

About  me  leap'd  and  langh'd 
The  modish  Cupid  of  the  day. 

And  shriU'd  bis  tinsel  shaft. 

"  I  swear  (and  else  may  insects  prick 

Each  leaf  into  a  gall) 
This  girl,  for  whom  your  heart  is  sick, 

Is  three  times  worth  them  all; 

"  For  those  and  theirs,  by  Nature's  law. 

Have  faded  long  ago; 
But  in  these  latter  springs  I  saw 

Your  own  Olivia  blow, 

"  From  when  she  gamboU'd  on  the  greens, 

A  baby-germ,  to  when 
The  maiden  blossoms  of  her  teens 

Could  number  five  from  ten. 

"  I  swear,  by  leaf,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
(And  hear  me  with  thine  ears,) 

That,  tho"  I  circle  in  the  grain 
Five  hundred  rings  of  years— 

"Yet,  since  I  fhwt  could  cast  a  shade. 

Did  never  creature  pass 
So  slightly,  musically  made. 

So  light  upon  the  grass : 

"  For  as  to  fairies,  that  will  flit 
To  make  the  greensward  fi*e8h, 


With  slow,  faint  steps,  and  much  exceeding  pain, 
Have  scrambled  past  those  pits  of  flre,  that  still 
Slug  in  mine  ears.    But  yield  not  me  the  praise : 
God  only  thro'  his  bounty  hath  thought  fit. 
Among  the  powers  and  princes  of  this  world, 
To  make  me  an  example  to  mankind, 
Which  few  can  reach  to.    Yet  I  do  not  say 
But  that  a  time  may  come — yea,  even  now, 
Now,  now,  his  footsteps  smite  the  threshold  stairs 
Of  life— I  say,  that  time  is  at  the  doors 
When  you  may  worship  me  without  reproach ; 
For  I  will  leave  my  relics  in  your  land. 
And  you  may  carve  a  shrine  about  my  dust. 
And  bum  a  fragrant  lamp  before  my  bones, 
When  I  am  gather'd  to  the  glorious  saints. 

While  I  spake  then,  a  sting  of  shrewdest  pain 
Ran  shrivelling  thro'  me,  and  a  cloud-like  change. 
In  passing,  with  a  grosser  film  made  thick 
These  heavy,  horny  eyes.    The  end !  the  end  1 
Surely  the  end  1    What's  here  7  a  shape,  a  shade, 
A  flauh  of  light.    Is  that  the  angel  there 
That  holds  a  crown  ?    Come,  blessed  brother,  come, 
I  know  thy  glittering  face.    I  waited  long; 
My  brows  are  ready.    What!  deny  it  now? 
Nay,  draw,  draw,  draw  nigh.    So  I  clutch  it.    Clirist  1 
'Tls  gone:  'tis  here  again:  the  crown!  the  crown! 
So  now  'tis  fitted  on  and  grows  to  me. 
And  from  it  melt  the  dews  of  Paradise, 
Sweet !  sweet !  spikenard,  and  balm,  and  fi-ankin- 

cense. 
Ah !  let  me  not  be  fool'd,  sweet  saints :  I  tmst 
That  I  am  whole,  and  clean,  and  meet  for  Heaven. 

Speak,  if  there  be  a  priest,  a  man  of  Ood, 
Among  you  there,  and  let  him  presently 
Approach,  and  lean  a  ladder  on  the  shaft. 
And  climbing  up  into  my  airy  home. 
Deliver  me  the  blessed  nncrament ; 
For  by  the  warning  of  the  Holy  Ohost, 
I  prophesy  that  I  shall  die  to-night, 
A  quarter  before  twelve. 

But  thou,  O  Lord, 
Aid  all  this  foolish  people;  let  them  take 
Example,  pattern:  lead  them  to  thy  light. 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 

Okok  more  the  gate  behind  me  Calls; 

Once  more  before  my  face 
I  see  the  moulder'd  Abbey-walls, 

That  stand  within  the  chacc. 

Beyond  the  lodge  the  city  lies. 
Beneath  its  drift  of  smoke  ; 

And  ahl  with  what  delighted  eyes 
I  turn  to  yonder  oak. 

For  when  my  passion  first  began. 
Ere  that,  which  in  mc  burn'd. 

The  love,  that  makes  me  thrice  a  man, 
Could  hope  itself  return'd ; 

To  yonder  oak  within  the  field 

I  spoke  without  restraint, 
And  with  a  larger  faith  appeal'd        • 

Than  Papist  unto  Saint 

For  oft  I  talk'd  with  bim  apart. 
And  told  him  of  my  choice. 

Until  he  plagiarized  a  heart. 
And  answer'd  with  a  voice. 

Tho'  what  he  whisper'd,  under  Heaven 
None  else  could  understand; 

I  found  him  garrulously  given, 
A  babbler  in  the  land. 

But  since  I  heard  him  make  reply 
Is  many  a  weary  hour ; 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


06 


I  hold  th«m  «xquWul7  knit. 
But  tu  too  fpara  of  flesh." 

O,  hide  thy  knott«d  knees  in  Ibrn, 

And  overl<M>lc  the  chace ; 
And  flrom  thy  topmost  branch  dlsoern 

The  roote  of  Sumner-place. 

But  thou,  whereon  I  carred  her  namet 

That  oft  boat  heard  my  vows, 
Deelare  when  la»t  Olivia  came 

To  sport  Ixsueath  thy  bongha. 

•*0  yesterday,  yon  know,  the  (klr 

Was  holden  at  tho  town : 
Her  father  left  his  good  arm-chair, 

And  rode  his  banter  down. 

"  And  with  bim  Albert  came  on  his, 

I  look'd  at  bim  with  Joy : 
As  cowslip  unto  oxiip  is. 

So  seems  she  to  the  boy. 

"An  boar  had  past— and,  sitting  straight 
Within  the  low-wbeel'd  chaise, 

Iler  muthcr  trundled  to  the  gate 
Behind  the  dappled  grays. 

"  Bnt,  as  for  her,  she  stay'd  at  home, 

And  on  the  roof  she  went. 
And  down  the  way  you  use  to  come 

She  look'd  with  dLscoutent 

"She  left  the  novel  bAlf-uncnt 

Upon  the  rosewood  shelf; 
She  left  the  new  piano  shut: 

She  could  not  please  herself. 

"Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  the  colt. 

And  livelier  than  a  lark 
She  sent  her  voice  thro'  all  the  h9lt 

Before  her,  and  the  park. 

"  A  light  wind  chased  her  on  the  wing, 

And  in  the  chase  grew  wild, 
As  close  as  might  be  would  he  cling 

About  the  darling  child : 

"Bat  light  as  any  wind  that  blows 

So  fleetly  did  she  stir. 
The  flower,  she  touch'd  on,  dipt  and  rose, 

And  tum'd  to  look  at  her. 

"And  here  she  came,  and  round  me  play'd. 

And  sang  to  me  the  whole 
Of  those  three  stanzas  that  you  made 

About  my  '  giant  bole ;' 

"  And  in  a  flt  of  (h)lic  mirth 

She  strove  to  span  my  waist; 
Alas,  I  was  so  broad  of  girth, 

I  could  not  be  embraced. 

"I  wlsh'd  myself  the  fair  yonng  beech 

That  here  beside  me  8tand!>, 
That  round  me,  cla^^ping  each  in  each. 

She  might  have  lock'd  her  hands. 

"Yet  seem'd  the  pressure  thrice  as  sweet 

As  woodbine's  frafdic  hold. 
Or  when  I  feel  about  my  feet 

The  berried  briony  fold." 

O  muffle  ronnd  thy  knees  with  fern. 

And  shadow  Sumner-chace ! 
Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 

The  roob  of  Sumner-place  ! 


But  tell  me,  did  she  raad  the  nuM 

I  carved  with  many  vow* 
When  last  with  throbbing  heart  I  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs  r 

"  O  yes,  she  wander'd  round  and  ronnd 

These  knotted  knees  of  mine. 
And  found,  and  kisa'd  the  name  she  found. 

And  sweetly  murmur'd  thine. 

"A  teardrop  trembled  fh>m  its  sonroe, 

And  down  my  sarfkce  crepc 
My  sense  of  touch  is  something  coarse. 

Bat  I  believe  she  wept 

"Then  flosh'd  her  cheek  with  rosy  light, 

She  glanced  across  the  plain  ; 
But  nut  a  creature  was  In  sight; 

She  kiss'd  me  once  again. 

"  Her  kisses  were  so  dose  and  kind, 

That,  tmst  me  on  my  word. 
Hard  wood  I  am,  and  wrinkled  rind. 

Bat  yet  my  sap  was  stirr'd: 

"And  even  into  my  inmost  ring 

A  pleasure  I  discem'd, 
Like  those  blind  motions  of  the  Spring, 

That  show  the  year  is  tum'd. 

"  Thrice-happy  he  that  may  caress 

The  ringlet's  waving  balm— 
The  cushions  of  whose  touch  may  press 

The  maiden's  tender  palm. 

"L  rooted  here  among  the  groves. 

But  languidly  a^ust 
My  vapid  vegetable  loves 

With  anthers  and  with  dust:  * 

"  For  ah !  my  Mend,  the  days  were  brief 

Whereof  the  poets  talk. 
When  that,  which  breathes  within  the  leaC 

Could  slip  its  bark  and  walk. 

"But  conid  I,  as  in  times  foregone. 
From  spray,  and  branch,  and  stem. 

Have  suck'd  and  gather'd  into  one 
The  life  that  spreads  in  them, 

"She  had  not  found  me  so  remiss; 

But  lightly  issuing  thro', 
I  would  have  paid  her  kiss  for  kiss 

With  usury  thereto." 

O  flourish  high,  with  leafy  towers. 

And  overlook  the  lea. 
Pursue  thy  loves  among  the  bowers. 

But  leave  thou  mine  to  me. 

O  flourish,  bidden  deep  in  fern. 

Old  oak,  I  love  thee  well; 
A  thonsand  thanks  for  what  I  learn 

And  what  remains  to  telL 

"  T  is  little  more ;  the  day  was  warm ; 

At  last,  tired  out  with  play, 
She  sank  her  head  upon  her  arm. 

And  at  my  feet  she  lay. 

"  Her  eyelids  dropp'd  their  silken  eaves, 

I  breathed  upon  her  eyes 
Thro'  all  the  summer  of  my  leaves 

A  welcome  mlx'd  with  sighs. 

"  I  took  the  swarming  sound  of  life — 
The  music  fh>m  the  town— 


r,ii 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 


The  mnrmnra  of  the  dram  and  flfe, 
And  lall'd  them  in  my  own. 

"Sometimes  I  let  a  ennbeam  slip, 

To  light  her  Bhaded  eye; 
A  second  flatler'd  round  her  lip 

Like  a  golden  butterfly; 

"A  third  would  glimmer  on  her  neck 
To  make  the  necklace  shine; 

Another  slid,  a  sunuy  fleck, 
From  bead  to  ankle  flue. 

"  Then  close  and  dark  my  arms  I  spread, 

And  shadow'd  all  her  rest  — 
Dropt  dews  upon  her  golden  bead. 

An  acorn  in  her  breast 

"  But  in  a  pet  she  started  up, 
And  pluck'd  it  out,  and  drew 

My  little  oakliug  from  the  cup, 
And  flung  him  in  the  dew. 

"And  yet  it  was  a  graceful  gilt — 

I  felt  a  pang  within 
As  when  I  see  the  woodman  lift 

His  axe  to  slay  my  kin. 

"I  shook  bim  down  because  be  was 

The  fluest  on  the  tree. 
Ue  lies  beside  thee  on  the  grau. 

O  Idsa  him  once  for  me. 

"O  kiss  him  twice  and  thrice  for  me, 

That  have  no  lips  to  kiss, 
For  never  yet  was  oak  on  lea 

Shall  grow  so  fair  a>  this." 

Step  deeper  yet  in  herb  and  fern. 

Look  further  thro'  the  cbace, 
Spread  upward  till  thy  bougha  discern 

The  front  of  Sumner-plaoe. 

This  fhiit  of  thine  by  Love  is  blest. 

That  but  a  moment  lay 
Where  fairer  fruit  of  Love  may  rest 

Some  happy  future  day. 

I  kiss  it  twice,  I  kiss  it  thrice, 
The  warmth  it  thence  shall  win 

To  riper  life  may  magnetize 
The  baby-oak  within. 

But  thou,  while  kingdoms  overset 

Or  lapse  from  hand  to  hand. 
Thy  leaf  shall  never  full,  nor  yet 

Thine  acorn  in  the  laud. 

May  never  saw  dismember  thee. 

Nor  wielded  axe  disjoint^ 
That  art  the  faireot-spoken  tree 

From  here  to  Lizard-poinL 

O  rock  upon  thy  towery  top 
All  throats  that  gurgle  sweet! 

All  starry  culmination  drop 
Balm-dews  to  bathe  thy  feet! 

All  grass  of  silky  feather  grow— 

And  while  he  sinks  or  swells 
The  full  south-breeze  aronnd  thee  blow 

The  Bonnd  of  minster  bells. 

The  fat  earth  feed  thy  branchy  root. 

That  nnder  deeply  strikes  ! 
The  northern  morning  o'er  thee  shoot, 

High  up,  in  silver  spikes ! 


Nor  ever  lightning  char  thy  grain. 

But,  rolling  as  in  sleep, 
Low  thunders  bring  the  mellow  rain. 

That  makes  thee  broad  and  deep ! 

And  hear  me  swear  a  solemn  oath. 

That  only  by  thy  side 
Will  I  to  Olive  plight  my  troth. 

And  gain  her  for  my  bride. 

And  when  my  marriage  morn  may  fail. 

She,  Dryad-like,  shall  wear 
Alternate  leaf  and  acorn-ball     . 

In  wreath  about  her  hair. 

And  I  will  work  in  prose  and  rhyme. 
And  praise  thee  more  in  both 

Than  bard  has  honor'd  beech  or  lime. 
Or  that  Thesealian  growth, 

In  which  the  swarthy  ringdoves  sat. 
And  mystic  sentence  spoke ; 

And  more  than  England  honors  that, 
Tby  Camoos  brother-oak. 

Wherein  the  younger  Charles  abode 
Till  all  the  paths  were  dim, 

And  far  below  the  Roundhead  rode. 
And  bomm'd  a  early  hymn. 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 

Or  love  that  never  found  his  earthly  close, 

What  sequel?    Streaming  eyes  and  breaking  heart:  ? 

Or  all  the  same  aa  if  be  had  not  l>een  r 

Not  Bo.    Shall  Error  in  the  round  of  time 
Still  father  Truth  r    O  shall  the  braggart  shout 
For  some  blind  glimpse  of  freedom  work  iteelf 
Thro'  madness,  hated  by  the  wise,  to  law 
System  and  empire  f    Sin  itself  be  found 
The  cloudy  porch  oft  opening  on  the  Sun  t 
And  only  he,  this  wonder,  dead,  become 
Mere  highway  dust !  or  year  by  year  alone 
Sit  brooding  in  the  mins  of  a  life. 
Nightmare  of  youth,  the  spectre  of  himselfr 

If  this  were  thus,  if  this,  indeed,  were  all. 
Better  the  narrow  brain,  the  stony  heart. 
The  staring  eye  glazed  o'er  with  sapless  days. 
The  long  mechanic  pacings  to  and  (h>, 
The  set  gray  life,  and  apathetic  end. 
But  am  I  not  the  nobler  thro'  tby  love  t 
O  three  times  less  unworthy !  likewise  thou 
Art  more  thro*  Love,  and  greater  than  thy  years. 
The  Sun  will  run  his  orbit,  and  the  Moon 
Her  circle.    Walt,  and  Love  himself  will  bring 
The  drooping  flower  of  knowledge  changed  to  fruir 
Of  wisdom.    Wait :  my  faith  is  large  in  Time, 
And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  perfect  end. 

Will  some  one  say,  then  why  not  ill  for  good 
Why  took  ye  not  your  pastime  t    To  that  man 
My  work  shall  answer,  since  I  knew  the  right 
And  did  it :  for  a  man  is  not  aa  Ood, 
But  then  most  Godlike  l>eing  most  a  man. 

—So  let  me  think  't  is  well  for  thee  and  me— 
Ill-fated  that  I  am,  what  lot  is  mine 
Whose  foresight  preaches  fteace,  my  heart  so  slow 
To  feel  it !    For  how  hard  it  seem'd  to  me, 
When  eyes,  love-languid  thro'  half-tears,  would  dwe'.I 
One  earnest,  earnest  moment  upon  mine, 
Then  not  to  dare  to  see !  when  thy  low  voice. 
Faltering,  would  break  its  syllables,  to  keep 
My  own  fnll-tnned, — hold  passion  in  a  leash. 
And  not  leap  forth  and  fall  about  thy  neck. 
And  on  thy  bosom,  (deep-desired  relief !) 
Rain  out  the  heavy  mist  of  tears,  that  weigh'd 
Upon  my  brain,  my  senses,  and  my  soul ! 


THE  QOLDBN  YEAR— ULY88ES. 


For  Love  hlmvelf  took  part  aKnIuat  himaelf 
To  waru  us  off,  aud  Duty  lovod  »t  Lovo— 
U  thia  world's  cnrre,— b<>loYed  but  hal«d-<ania 
Like  Death  betwixt  thy  dear  embrao*  and  mtne, 
And  crying,  Who  Is  thin  r  behold  thy  bride," 
She  push'd  me  flrom  thee. 

If  the  sense  la  bard 
To  alien  ear*.  I  did  nut  speak  to  theee 
No,  not  to  thiH>,  but  to  myself  In  thee: 
Hard  Is  my  doom  and  thine:  thou  kuoweat  It  all. 

Coald  Love  part  thus?  was  It  nut  well  to  speak, 
To  hare  spoken  once?    It  could  not  but  be  well. 
The  slow  sweet  houm  that  brlu);  um  all  things  good, 
The  slow  sad  hourx  that  briuK  uh  all  things  III, 
Aud  all  good  thiti|;N  from  ovil,  brought  the  night 
In  which  we  sat  together  aud  aloue,  ' 

And  to  the  want,  that  hollow'd  all  the  heart, 
Qave  nttcrnnce  by  the  ycaniing  of  an  eye, 
That  buniM  upon  its  object  thro'  such  tears 
As  flow  but  once  a  life. 

The  trance  gave  way 
To  thoee  caresses,  when  a  hundred  times 
In  that  last  kiss,  which  never  was  the  loot. 
Farewell,  like  endless  welcome,  lived  and  died. 
Then  follow'a  counsel,  comfort,  and  the  words 
That  make  a  man  feel  strong  in  speaking  truth ; 
Till  now  the  dark  was  worn,  and  overhead 
The  lights  of  sunset  and  of  sunrise  mix'd 
In  that  brief  night;  the  summer  night,  that  paused 
Among  her  stars  to  hear  us ;  stars  that  hung 
LoTe-charm'd  to  listen :  all  the  wheels  of  Time 
Spun  ronnd  in  station,  but  the  end  had  come. 

O  then  like  those,  who  clench  their  nerves  to  rush 
Upon  their  dissolution,  wc  two  ruse. 
There — closing  like  an  individual  life— 
In  one  blind  cry  uf  passiuu  and  of  pain. 
Like  bitter  accusation  ev'nto  death, 
Can;;bt  up  the  whole  of  love  and  utter'd  it, 
Aud  bade  adieu  forever. 

Live— yet  live — 
Shall  sharpest  pathos  blight  us,  knowing  all 
Life  needs  for  life  is  possible  to  will — 
Live  happy;  tend  thy  flowers;  be  tended  by 
My  blessing  I    Should  my  Shadow  cross  thy  thoughts 
Too  sadly  for  their  peace,  remand  it  thou 
For  calmer  hours  to  Memory's  darkest  hold, 
If  not  to  be  forgotten — not  at  once — 
Not  all  forgotten.    Should  it  cross  thy  dreams, 
O  might  it  come  like  one  that  looks  content, 
With  quiet  eyes  unfaithful  to  the  truth, 
And  point  thee  forward  to  a  distant  light. 
Or  seem  to  lift  a  burthen  from  thy  heart 
And  leave  thee  freOr,  till  thou  wake  rcfresh'd, 
Then  when  the  low  matin-chirp  hath  grown 
Full  choir,  and  morning  driv'n  her  plough  of  pearl 
Far  furrowing  into  light  the  mounded  rack. 
Beyond  the  lair  green  field  aud  eastern  sea. 


THE  GOLDEN  YEAR. 

Well,  yon   shall   have   that  song   which   Leonard 

wrote: 
It  was  last  summer  on  a  tour  in  Wales: 
Old  James  was  with  roe:  we  that  day  had  been 
Up  Snowdon ;  and  I  wish'd  for  Leonard  there, 
And  found  him  in  Llamberis:  then  we  crost 
Between  the  lakes,  and  clamber'd  half  way  up 
The  counter  side ;  and  that  same  song  of  his 
He  told  me ;  for  I  banter'd  him,  and  swore 
They  said  he  lived  shut  up  within  himself; 
A  tongue-tied  Poet  in  the  feverous  days. 
That,  setting  the  how  much  before  the  hote. 
Cry,  like  the  daughters  of  the  horse-leech,  "Give, 
Cram  us  with  all,"  but  count  not  me  the  herd  I 

To  which  "They  call  me  what  they  will,"  he  said: 
"But  I  was  bom  too  late:  the  fair  new  forms, 


That  float  abont  the  ihrsshold  of  an  ags, 

Like  truths  of  8clenc«  waiting  to  b«  caught— 

Catch  me  who  can,  and  make  the  catcher  crown'd  •• 

Are  tAken  by  the  fbrelock.    Lst  it  bs. 

But  If  yon  cars  Indeed  to  llatsu,  hsar 

These  measnred  words,  my  work  of  ysstermom. 

"We  sleep  and  wake  and  sleep,  bnt  all  thlUi."* 
move: 
The  Son  flies  forward  to  his  brother  Snn ; 
The  dark  Earth  follows  wheel'd  In  her  ellipse ; 
And  human  things  returning  on  themoclvcs 
Move  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  yciir. 

"  Ah,  tho'  the  times,  when  some  new  thought  cnu 
bud, 
Are  but  as  poets*  seasons  when  they  flower. 
Vet  seas,  that  dally  gain  upon  the  shore, 
Have  ebb  and  flow  conditioning  their  march, 
And  slow  and  sure  comes  up  the  golden  year. 

"When  wealth  no  more  shall  rest  in  monndcJ 
heaps. 
But  emit  with  tnUt  light  shall  slowly  melt 
In  many  streams  to  fatten  lower  lands. 
And  light  shall  spread,  and  man  be  llker  man 
Thro'  all  the  season  of  the  golden  year. 

"Shall  eagles  not  be  eagles?  wrcus  be  wrens? 
If  all  the  world  were  falcons,  what  of  that? 
The  wonder  of  the  eagle  were  the  less. 
But  he  not  less  the  eagle.    Happy  days 
Roll  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 

"Fly,  happy  happy  sails  and  bear  the  Press; 
Fly,  happy  with  the  mission  of  the  Cross; 
Knit  land  to  land,  and  blowing  havenward 
With  silks,  and  fruits,  and  spices,  clear  of  toll, 
Enrich  the  markets  of  the  golden  year. 

"  But  we   grow  old.    Ah !  when   shall  all  men's 
good 
Be  each  man's  mle,  and  universal  Peace 
Lie  like  a  shaft  of  light  across  the  land. 
And  like  a  lane  of  beams  athwart  the  sea, 
Thro'  all  the  circle  of  the  golden  year?" 

Thus  far  he  flowed,  and  ended ;  whereupon 
"Ah,  folly!"  in  mimic  cadence  answer'd  James — 
"Ah,  folly !  for  it  lies  so  far  away. 
Not  in  our  time,  nor  in  our  children's  time, 
*T  is  like  the  second  world  to  us  that  live ; 
T  were  all  as  one  to  flz  our  hopes  on  Heaven 
As  on  this  vision  of  the  golden  year." 

With  that  he  struck  his  staff'  against  the  rocks 
And  broke  It,— Jantes,— you  know  him,— old,  but  full 
Of  force  and  choler,  and  firm  upon  his  feet. 
And  like  an  oaken  stock  in  winter  woods, 
O'erflonrish'd  with  thq  hoary  clematis : 
Then  added,  all  in  heat: 

"What  stuff"  is  this! 
Old  writers  push'd  the  happy  season  back,— 
The  more  fools  they, — we  forward:  dreamers  both: 
Ton  most,  that  In  an  age,  when  every  hour 
Must  sweat  her  sixty  minutes  to  the  death. 
Live  on,  God  love  us,  as  if  the  seedsman,  rapt 
Upon  the  teeming  tiarvest,  should  not  dip 
His  hand  into  the  bag:  but  well  I  know 
That  unto  him  who  works,  and  feels  he  works. 
This  same  grand  year  is  ever  at  the  doors." 

He  spoke ;  and,  high  above,  I  heard  them  blast 
The  steep  slate-quarry,  and  the  great  echo  flap 
And  bufliet  round  the  bills  from  bluff  to  bluff'. 


ULYSSES. 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags, 

Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not  me. 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel:  I  will  drink 

Life  to  the  lees :  all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 


68 


ULYSSES. 


Greatly,  have  Buffer'd  greatly,  both  with  those 

That  loved  me,  and  alone  ;  on  shore,  and  when 

Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Uyades 

Vest  the  dim  sea :  I  am  become  a  name ; 

For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 

Much  have  I  seen  and  known ;  cities  of  men 

And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments. 

Myself  not  least,  but  honor'd  of  them  all ; 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 

Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 

I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 

Gleams  that  untravell'd  world,  whose  margin  fades 

Forever  and  forever  when  I  move. 

How  doll  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 

To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  mse ! 

As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.    Life  piled  on  life 

Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 

Little  remains :  but  every  hoar  is  saved 

From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 

A  bringer  of  new  things ;  and  vile  it  were 

For  some  three  sons  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 

To  follow  knowledge,  like  a  sinking  star, 

Beyond  tho  utmost  bound  of  human  thought 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachns, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle— 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fhlfll 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mOd 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useftil  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  be,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 


In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.    He  works  his  worlt,  I  mine. 
There  lies  the  port :  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.    My  mariners. 
Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and  thought 

with  me — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads— you  and  I  are  old; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil; 
Death  closes  all:  but  something  ere  the  end. 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done. 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  jocks : 
The  long  day  wanes:  the  slow  moon  climbs:  the 

deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.    Come,  my  fricud!<, 
T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sonnding  fUrrows;  for  my  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfH  will  wash  naydown: 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  ules, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 
Tho'  mnch  is  taken,  mnch  abides ;  and  tho' 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven ;  that  which  we  are,  we 

are; 
One  eqnal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  bat  strong  in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 


"  Tb«r«  Um  tha  port :  the  Ta«*l  poik  har  Mil : 

There  gloom  the  dark  broad  aeai." 


LOCKSLEY  HALL.  r.;t 


LOCKSLEY    HALL. 

CoMBAon,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  m  yet  't  ia  early  mom ; 
Leave  me  here,  and  wheu  yoa  want  me,  soaaS  npon  the  bugle  horn. 

T  la  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the  cnrlewa  call, 
Dnuj  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Lockaley  Hall ; 

Locluley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  the  sandy  tracts, 
And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  Into  cataracts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I  went  to  rest. 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  West 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  t{iro'  the  mellow  shade, 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  flre-flles  tangled  In  a  silver  braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander'd,  nourishing  a  youth  sublime 
With  the  foiry  talcs  of  science,  and  the  long  result  of  Time ; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  (hiitflil  land  reposed ; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise  that  it  closed: 

When  I  dipt  into  the  fbture  far  as  human  eye  conld  see; 

Saw  the  Virion  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be.— 

In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's  breast; 
In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  another  crest ; 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  bumish'd  dove ; 

In  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should  be  fur  one  so  young, 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute  observance  hung. 

And  I  said,  "  My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak  the  truth  to  n^e, 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being  sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  color  and  a  light, 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the  northern  night. 

And  she  turn'd— her  bosom  shaken  with  a  sudden  storm  of  sighs- 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  hazel  eyes- 
Saying,  "  I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should  do  me  wrong ;" 
Saying,  "Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin r'  weeping,  "I  have  loved  thee  long. 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  tnm'd  it  In  his  glowing  hands; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might: 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass'd  in  mnsic  ont  of  sight 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the  copses  ring. 
And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with  the  fulness  of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships, 
And  our  splrita  rush'd  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips. 

O  my  consin,  shallow-hearted  1    O  my  Amy,  mine  no  more ! 
O  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland  1    O  the  barren,  barren  shore ! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs  have  sung, 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a  shrewish  tongne ! 

Is  It  well  to  wish  thee  happy  ?— having  known  me— to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower  heart  than  mine ! 


(>() 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


"  Maiir  u  •vMiIng  bjr  Dm  waUn  did  w  watch  tha  lUUly  Mpt, 
And  our  splriu  nubad  togatbar  at  tha  loachlag  of  tha  llpa." 


Yet  it  shall  be:  thou  shalt  lower  to  bis  level  day  by  day, 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sympathise  with  day. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is :  thon  art  mated  with  a  clown. 

And  the  grossuess  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

ne  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent  its  novel  force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his  horse. 

What  is  thlsf  his  eyes  are  heavy:  think  not  they  are  glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him:  it  is  thy  duty:  kiss  liim:  take  his  hand  in  thine. 

Tt  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is  overwrought ; 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with  thy  lighter  thoa};ht. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to  understand— 
Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho'  I  slew  thee  with  my  hand ! 

Better  thon  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  flrom  the  heart's  disgrace, 
Roll'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in  a  last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the  strength  of  youth  I 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the  living  truth  1 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest  Nature's  rule ! 
Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  efraiten'd  forehead  of  the  fool ! 

Well— 'tis  well  that  I  should  bluster  !—Hadgt  thon  less  unworthy  proved- 
Would  to  God— for  I  had  loved  thee  more  than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  shonld  cherish  that  which  bears  but  bitter  fhiitf 
I  will  pluck  it  fi-om  my  bosom,  tho'  my  heart  be  at  the  root 

Never,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  such  leneth  of  years  should  come 
As  the  many-winter'd  crow  that  leads  the  clanging  rookery  home. 


LOCKSLGY  HALL.  at 

When  U  comfort  r  In  divlaton  of  the  raeorda  of  the  mlad  f 
Can  I  part  her  trom  hsnolf,  aud  ior«  her,  m  I  knew  her,  klud  t 

I  rememlwr  one  that  pertsh'd :  Rweetly  did  the  upeak  and  more :  * 

Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look  at  was  to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  aa  dead,  and  love  her  for  the  love  ahe  bore? 
No— ehe  never  loved  me  truljr:  love  la  love  forevermore. 

Comfort  r  comfort  scom'd  of  devils  !  thla  la  tmth  the  poet  alnge, 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  Is  remembering  happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thon  learn  it,  lest  thy  heart  be  pat  to  proof; 
In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  do;;,  he  hnnu  in  dreamo,  and  thon  art  staring  at  the  wall, 
Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickerts  and  the  shadows  riae  and  full. 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to  his  drunken  sleci>, 
To  thy  widow'd  marriage  pillows,  to  the  tears  that  ibon  wilt  weep. 

Thon  Shalt  hear  the  "  Never,  never,"  whlsper'd  by  the  phantom  ycnr#, 
And  a  song  fh>m  out  the  distance  In  the  ringing  of  thine  ears ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kindness  on  thy  pain. 
Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow:  get  thee  to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace :  for  a  tender  voice  will  cry. 
'Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine;  a  lip  to  drain  thy  trouble  dry. 

Daby  lips  will  laugh  me  down :  my  latest  rival  briuf^  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  mother's  breast, 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a  dearness  not  his  dne. 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his :  it  will  be  worthy  of  the  two. 

O,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  part. 

With  a  little  hoard  of  maxima  preaching  down  a  daughter's  heart 

"They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings — she  herself  was  not  exempt- 
Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer'd  "—Perish  in  thy  self-contempt ! 

Overlive  it— lower  yet— be  happy !  wherefore  should  I  care  t 
I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  lighting  upon  days  like  these? 
Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden  keys. 

Bvery  gate  is  throng'd  with  suitors,  all  the  markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  an  angry  fancy :  what  is  that  which  I  should  do  T 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foeman's  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  roll'd  in  vapor,  and  the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that  Honor  feels. 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each  other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness  ?    I  will  turn  that  earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  thou  wondrous  Mother-Age  I 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt  before  the  strife. 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tumult  of  my  life ; 

Teaming  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  coming  years  wonld  yield. 
Eager-hearted  as  a  lK>y  when  first  be  leaves  his  father's  field. 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway,  near  and  nearer  drawn. 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like  a  dreary  dawn ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  before  him  then. 
Underneath  the  light  be  looks  at,  in  among  the  throngs  of  men ; 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reaping  something  new: 

That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the  things  that  they  shall  do  : 

For  I  dipt  into  the  ftature,  far  as  human  eye  could  see, 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  wonld  be : 


02  LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


Saw  the  beavene  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of  magic  sails, 
Pilots  of  the  parple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly  bales ; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  sbonting,  and  there  rain'd  a  ghastly  dew 
From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the  central  blue ; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south-wind  rushing  warm, 
With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  thro'  the  thunder-storm; 

Till  the  war-dmm  tbrobb'd  no  longer,  and  the  battle-flags  were  forl'd 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a  fretful  realm  in  awe. 
And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  universal  law. 

So  I  triumph'd,  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro'  me  left  me  dry. 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with  the  jaundiced  eye ; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are  out  of  Joint, 
Science  moves,  but  slowly  slowly,  creeping  on  from  point  to  point: 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion,  creeping  nigfaer, 
Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a  slowly-dying  Are. 

Yet  I  donbt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd  with  the  prooeaa  of  the  snna. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his  yoathfhl  Joys, 
Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  forever  like  a  boy's  f 

Knowledge  comes,  bnt  wisdom  lingers,  and  I  linger  on  the  shore. 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  bnt  wisdom  lingers,  and  he  bears  a  laden  breast. 
Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  stillness  of  his  rest 

nark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on  the  bugle-hom. 
They  tp  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target  for  their  scorn : 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  roe  to  harp  on  sncb  a  monlder'd  string  t 
I  am  shamed  thro'  all  my  nature  to  have  loved  so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness !  woman's  pleasure,  woman's  pain- 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  boonded  in  a  ahaltower  brain : 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions,  match'd  with  mine. 
Are  as  moonlight  onto  sonlight,  and  as  water  onto  wine- 
Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.    Ah,  for  some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life  began  to  beat ; 

Whet«  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my  father  evll-starr'd  ;— 
I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish  ancle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit— there  to  wander  fiur  away. 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and  happy  skies, 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster,  knots  of  Paradise. 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  European  flag. 

Slides  the  bird. o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag; 

Droops  the  heavy-bloesom'd  bower,  hangs  the  heavy-fruited  tree- 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than  in  this  march  of  mind, 
In  tlie  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts  that  shake  manJdnd. 

There  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer  shall  have  scope  and  breathing-space  • 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  snpple-sinew'd,  they  shall  dive,  and  they  shall  run. 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their  lances  in  the  sun ; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the  rainbows  of  the  brooks, 
Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable  books — 


GODIVA. 


«S 


Vool,  as«in  the  dream,  th*  tkney  I  bat  I  kmom  my  words  are  wild, 
But  I  oottnt  the  xray  barbarian  lower  than  the  Chrivtlau  child. 

/,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our  gloriuns  gains. 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast  with  lower  pains  t 

Mated  with  n  ixjuaUd  aaTage— what  to  me  were  ann  or  dime  f 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  (bremoat  files  of  time— 

I  that  rather  held  It  better  men  shonld  perish  one  by  one. 

Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gase  like  Joahna's  moon  in  AJaInn ! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.    Forward,  forward  let  ns  fange. 
Let  the  great  world  spin  fbreTer  down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day : 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay. 

Motber-Af^  (for  mine  I  knew  not)  help  mc  as  when  life  began: 

Rift  the  bills,  and  roll  Uie  waters,  flaHh  the  lightului^a,  weigh  the  Soii- 

O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  epirit  hath  not  set 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro'  all  my  fancy  yet 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to  Locksley  Hall  I 
Now  tor  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me  the  roof-tree  falL 

Comes  a  vapor  f^om  the  margin,  blackening  over  heath  and  holt. 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a  thunderbolt 

Let  it  flUt  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail,  or  fire  or  snow : 
For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and  I  go. 


GODIVA. 

/  waittd  for  the  train  at  Coventry; 
I  hung  vUh  groome  and  porter$  on  the  hridgt, 
To  vateh  the  three  tall  epiree;  and  there  I  ehaped 
The  eitif'e  ancient  legend  into  thie: 


Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time, 
New  men,  that  in  the  flying  of  a  wheel 
Cry  down  the  past,  not  only  we,  that  prate 
Of  rights  and  wrongs,  have  loved  the  people  well. 
And  loathed  to  see  them  overtax'd:  but  she 
Did  more,  and  underwent,  and  overcame. 


"  Tbca  Cad  ib*  to  btr  Inmott  bower,  aad  Umn 
CiKlMp'4  Ik*  w*dd«l  mflm  of  bw  bdb" 


64 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


The  woman  of  a  thonsand  Bummers  back, 

Godiva,  wife  to  that  grim  Ear),  who  ruled 

In  Coventry:  for  when  he  iaid  a  tax 

Upon  his  town,  and  all  the  mothers  brought 

Their  children,  clamoring,  "If  we  pay,  we  starve!" 

She  Bought  her  lord,  and  found  him,  where  he  strode 

About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone, 

His  beard  a  foot  before  him,  and  bis  hair 

A  yard  behincL    She  told  him  of  their  tears, 

And  pray'd  him,  "  If  they  pay  this  tax,  they  starve. •* 

Whereat  he  stared,  replying,  half-amazed, 

"You  would  not  let  your  little  finger  ache 

For  such  as  tha)et"—"B\it  I  would  die,"  said  she. 

He  langh'd,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by  Paul : 

Then  flliip'd  at  the  diamond  in  her  ear; 

"O  ay,  ay,  ay,  you  talk !"—"  Alas :"  she  said, 

"  But  prove  me  what  it  is  I  would  not  do." 

And  from  a  heart  as  rough  as  Esau's  hand, 

He  answer'd,  "Ride  you  naked  thro'  the  town, 

And  I  repeal  it ;"  and  nodding,  as  in  scorn, 

He  parted,  with  great  strides  among  hia  doga. 

So  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her  mind, 
As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift  and  blow, 
Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour. 
Till  pity  won.    She  sent  a  herald  forth, 
And  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of  trumpet,  all 
The  hard  condition ;  but  that  she  would  looae 
The  people:  therefore,  as  they  loved  her  well, 
From  then  till  noon  no  foot  should  pace  the  street, 
No  eye  look  down,  she  passing:  but  that  all 
Should  keep  within,  door  shut,  and  window  barr'd. 

Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower,  and  there 
tJnclasp'd  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt. 
The  grim  Earl's  gift ;  but  ever  at  a  breath 
She  linger'd,  looking  like  a  aommer  moon 
Half-dipt  In  doud :  anon  she  shook  her  bead, . 
And  shower'd  the  rippled  ringlets  to  her  knee ; 
Unclad  herself  in  haste ;  adown  the  stair    ' 
Stole  on ;  and,  like  a  creeping  sunl>eam,  slid 
From  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she  reach'd 
The  gateway ;  there  she  fonnd  her  palfrey  trapt 
In  purple  blazon'd  with  armorial  gold. 

Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with  chastity: 
The  deep  air  listcn'd  round  her  as  she  rode. 
And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed  for  fear. 
The  little  wide-mouth'd  heads  upon  the  spout 
Had  cunning  eyes  to  see :  the  barking  cur 
Made  her  cheek  flame :  her  palfrey's  footfall  shot 
Light  horrors  thro'  her  pulses:  the  blind  walls 
Were  full  of  chinks  and  holes ;  and  overhead 
Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared :  but  she 
Not  less  thro'  all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she  saw 
The  whitc-flower'd  eldcr-thlcket  from  the  field 
Gleam  thro'  the  Gothic  archways  in  the  wall. 

Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  with  chastity  : 
And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thankless  earth. 
The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come,  • 

Boring  a  little  auger-hole  in  fear, 
Peep'd— but  his  eyes,  before  they  had  their  will. 
Were  shrivell'd  into  darkness  in  his  head. 
And  dropt  before  him.    So  the  Powers,  who  wait 
On  noble  deeds,  cancell'd  a  sense  misused ; 
And  she,  that  knew  not,  pass'd :  and  all  at  once, 
With  twelve  great  shocks  of  sonnd,  the  shamelcys 

noon 
Was  clash'd  and  taammer'd  fyom  a  hundred  towers. 
One  after  one:  but  even  then  she  gain'd 
Her  bower ;  whence  reissuing,  robed  and  crown 'd. 
To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tax  away, 
And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


A  STILL  small  voice  spake  unto  me, 
"  Thou  art  so  full  of  misery, 
Were  it  not  better  not  to  be?" 


Then  to  the  still  small  voice  I  said: 
"  Let  me  not  cast  in  endless  shade 
What  is  so  wonderfully  made." 

To  which  the  voice  did  urge  reply : 

'•To-day  I  saw  the  dragon-fly 

Come  from  the  wells  where  be  did  lie. 

"  An  Inner  Impulse  rent  the  veil 
Of  his  old  husk :  from  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clear  plates  of  sapphire  mail. 

"He  dried  his  wings:  like  gaoze  they  grew: 
Thro'  crofts  and  pastures  wet  with  dew 
A  living  fiash  of  light  he  fiew." 

I  said,  "When  first  the  world  began, 
Young  Nature  thro'  five  cycles  ran. 
And  in  the  sixth  she  moulded  man. 

"  She  gave  him  mind,  the  lordliest 
Proportion,  and,  above  the  rest, 
Dominion  in  the  head  «nd  breast." 

Thereto  the  silent  voice  replied : 

"  Self-blinded  are  you  by  your  pride : 

Look  np  thro'  night :  the  world  is  wide. 

"This  truth  within  thy  mind  rebeane, 

That  in  a  boundless  universe 

Is  boundless  better,  boundless  worse. 

"Think  yon  this  mould  of  hopes  and  fr.irs 
CoDid  find  no  statelier  than  his  peers 
lo  yonder  hundred  million  spheres  t"  • 

It  spake,  moreover,  in  my  mind : 

"  Tbo'  thon  wert  scatter'd  to  the  wind, 

Yet  Is  there  plenty  of  the  kind." 

Then  did  my  response  clearer  fall : 
"  No  compound  of  this  earthly  ball 
Is  like  another,  all  in  alL" 

To  which  he  answer'd  acofflngly : 
"  Good  Bonl !  snppoae  I  grant  it  thee. 
Who  ni  weep  for  thy  deficiency  ? 

"Or  will  one  beam  be  leas  intense, 

When  thy  peculiar  dllTerence 

Is  cancell'd  in  the  world  of  sense  1" 

I  would  have  said,  "Tboa  canst  not  know," 
But  my  fhll  heart,  that  work'd  below, 
Rain'd  thro'  my  sight  its  overfiow. 

Again  the  voice  spake  nnto  me: 
"Thou  art  so  steep'd  in  misery, 
Surely,  't  were  better  not  to  be. 

"  Thine  anguish  will  not  let  thee  sleep, 

Nor  any  train  of  reason  keep : 

Thon  canst  not  think  but  thou  wilt  weep." 

I  said,  "The  years  with  change  advance: 
If  I  make  dark  my  countenance, 
I  shut  my  life  fk'om  happier  chance. 

"  Some  turn  this  sickness  yet  might  take, 
Ev'n  yet"    But  he :  "  What  drug  can  make 
A  wither'd  palsy  cease  to  shake?" 

I  wept,  "  Tho'  I  should  die,  I  know 
That  all  about  the  thorn  will  blow 
In  tufts  of  rosy-tinted  snow; 

"  And  men,  thro'  novel  spheres  of  thought 
Still  moving  after  truth  long  sought. 
Will  learn  new  things  when  I  am  not." 


THE  TWm  VoK  1.8. 


«r, 


"Tet,"tald  th*  Merat  Tolce,  "MNno  Uim 
Sooner  or  later,  will  gray  prime 
Make  U17  graas  boar  with  early  rtme. 

"  Not  leaa  awift  aoala  that  yearn  for  li^t, 

Knpt  after  heaTen'a  surry  flight, 

Would  sweep  the  tracta  of  day  and  night. 

"  Not  lc»8  the  )>ce  would  range  her  cella, 
The  ftirey  pricklo  Are  the  dells, 
The  foxglove  dueler  dappled  bella." 

I  said  tbnt  "all  tho  yeara  invent- 
Each  mouth  is  various  to  proMiut 
The  world  with  some  development 

"  Were  this  not  well,  to  bido  mine  boar, 
Tho'  watching  trom  a  rtiiu'd  tower 
How  grows  the  day  of  human  power  f " 

"The  highest-mounted  mind,"  be  said, 
"Still  sees  the  sacred  morning  spread 
The  silent  summit  overhead. 

"Will  thirty  seasons  render  plain 
Tho»e  lonely  lights  that  still  remain, 
Just  breaking  over  laud  and  maiur 

"Or  make  that  morn,  from  his  cold  crown 
And  crystal  Mleuce  creeping  dowu, 
Flood  with  full  daylight  glebe  and  town  f 

"  Forerun  thy  peers,  thy  time,  and  let 

Thy  feet,  millenniums  heuce,  bo  set 

In  midst  of  knowledge,  dream'd  not  yet. 

"  Thou  bast  not  gained  a  real  height. 
Nor  art  tbou  nearer  to  the  light, 
Because  the  scale  is  infinite. 

"  T  were  better  not  to  breathe  or  speak. 
Than  cry  for  strength,  remaining  weak. 
And  seem  to  find,  but  still  to  seek. 

"  Moreover,  but  to  seem  to  find 

Asks  what  tbou  lackest,  thought  reaign'd, 

A  healthy  frame,  a  quiet  mind." 

I  said,  "When  I  am  gone  away, 
'He  dared  not  tarry,'  men  will  say. 
Doing  dLibouor  to  my  clay." 

"This  is  more  vile,"  he  made  reply, 
"To  breathe  and  loathe,  to  live  and  sigh, 
Thau  once  from  dread  of  pain  to  die. 

"  Sick  art  thou— a  divided  will 
Still  heaping  on  the  fear  of  ill 
The  fear  of  men,  a  coward  still. 

"Do  men  love  thee 7    Art  tbon  so  bound 
To  men,  that  bow  thy  name  may  sound 
Will  vex  thee  lying  underground  f 

"  The  memory  of  the  wither'd  leaf 
In  endle-s  time  is  scarce  more  brief 
Than  of  the  gamer'd  Autumn-eheafL 

"  Oo,  vexed  Spirit,  sleep  in  trupt ; 
The  right  ear,  that  is  flll'd  with  dust, 
Hears  little  of  the  Calse  or  Just" 

"  Hard  task,  to  pluck  resolve,"  I  cried, 
"  From  emptiness  and  the  waste  wide 
Of  that  abyss,  or  ecomfal  pride ! 

"  Nay  —  rather  yet  that  I  could  raise 
One  hope  that  warm'd  me  in  the  davf 
While  still  I  yeam'd  for  human  praise. 
6 


"When,  wide  In  aonl  and  bold  of  tongiM, 
Among  tho  touts  I  panned  and  aang, 
The  distant  bniilc  flaub'd  and  ning. 

"I  sung  the  Joyful  I'asau  clear. 
And,  Kitting,  burnl«hM  without  (tar 
The  brand,  the  buckler,  and  the  spear— 

"Waiting  to  strive  a  happy  strife. 
To  war  with  falsehood  to  the  knife. 
And  not  to  lose  the  good  of  life— 

"Some  hidden  principle  to  move. 

To  put  together,  part  and  prove. 

And  mete  the  bounds  of  hate  and  love- 

"  Aa  far  aa  might  be,  to  carve  out 
Free  space  for  every  human  doubt. 
That  the  whole  uilud  might  orb  about— 

"To  aearch  thro'  all  I  felt  or  saw, 
The  spriugM  of  life,  the  depths  of  awe. 
And  reach  the  law  within  the  law: 

"At  least,  not  rotting  like  a  weed. 
But,  having  sown  some  generous  seed, 
Fmitful  of  fbrther  thought  and  deed, 

"To  pass,  when  Life  her  light  witbdrawi', 
Not  void  of  righteous  aelf-applause, 
Nor  in  a  merely  selfish  caose— 

"In  some  good  cause,  not  in  mine  own, 
To  perish,  wept  for,  bonor'd,  known, 
And  like  a  warrlbr  overthrown; 

"Whose  eyes  are  dim  with  glorious  tearti, 
Wben,  soil'd  with  nuble  du^t,  he  hears 
His  country's  war-song  thrill  bis  ears: 

"Then  dying  of  a  mortal  stroke, 
What  time  the  foeman'R  line  is  broke. 
And  all  the  war  is  roll'd  in  smoke." 

"Yea!"  said  the  voice,  "thy  dream  was  good 
While  thou  abodent  in  the  bud. 
It  was  the  stirrin;;  of  the  blood. 

"  If  Nature  put  not  forth  het  power 
About  the  opening  of  the  flower, 
Who  is  it  that  could  live  an  hour  f 

"Then  comes  the  check,  the  change,  the  lull. 
Pain  rises  up,  old  pleasures  pall. 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all. 

"Yet  hndst  thou,  thro'  enduring  pain, 
Link'd  month  to  mouth  witli  Ruch  a  chain 
Of  knitted  purport,  all  were  vain. 

"Thon  hadst  not  between  death  and  birth 
Dissolved  the  riddle  of  the  earth. 
80  were  thy  labor  little-worth. 

"That  men  with  knowledge  merely  play'd, 

I  told  thee— hardly  nigher  made, 

Tho'  scaling  slow  from  grade  to  grade; 

"  Much  less  this  dreamer,  deaf  and  blind. 
Named  man,  may  hope  some  truth  to  find, 
That  bears  relation  to  the  mind. 

"For  every  worm  beneath  the  moon 
Draws  different  threads,  and  late  and  soon 
Spins,  toiling  out  his  own  cocoon. 

"Cry,  faint  not:  either  Truth  is  bom 
Beyond  the  polar  gleam  forloni, 
Or  in  the  gateways  of  the  moru. 


66 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


"  Cry,  faint  not,  climb :  the  enmmits  slope 
Beyond  the  furthest  flights  of  hope. 
Wrapt  in  dense  cloud  from  base  to  cope. 

"Sometimes  a  little  corner  shines. 

As  over  rainy  mist  inclines 

A  gleaming  crag  with  belts  of  pines. 

*'  I  will  go  forward,  sayest  thou, 
I  shall  not  fail  to  And  her  now. 
Loolc  up,  the  fold  is  on  her  brow. 

"  If  straight  thy  tract,  or  if  obliqne. 

Thou  know'st  not    Shadows  thoa  dost  strike, 

Embracing  clond,  Ixion-like ; 

"And  owning  but  a  little  more 
Than  beasts,  abidcst  lame  and  poor, 
Calling  thyself  a  little  lower 

"  Than  angels.    Cease  to  wail  and  brawl  t 
Why  inch  by  inch  to  darkness  crawl  ? 
There  is  one  remedy  for  ail." 

"O  dull,  one-sided  voice,"  said  I, 
"Wilt  thou  make  everything  a  He, 
To  flatter  me  that  I  may  dieT 

"  I  know  that  age  to  age  sooceedi, 
Blowing  a  noise  of  tongues  and  deeds, 
A  dust  of  systems  and  of  creeds. 

*'I  cannot  hide  that  some  bsve  striven, 
Achieving  calm,  to  whom  wa\  given 
The  Joy  that  mixes  man  with  Heaven : 

"Who,  rowing  hard  against  the  stremi:, 
Saw  distant  gates  of  Eden  gleam, 
And  did  not  dream  it  was  a  dreara ; 

"  But  heard,  by  secret  transport  led, 
Ev'n  in  the  charnels  of  the  dead. 
The  murmur  of  the  funntHin-head— 

"Which  did  accomplish  their  desire. 
Bore  and  forbore,  and  did  not  tire, 
Like  Stephen,  an  nnqnenched  Are. 

"He  hce<ied  not  reviling  tones. 

Nor  sold  his  heart  to  Idle  moans, 

Tho'  curs'd  and  scom'd,  and  bruised  with  etones : 

"  But  looking  upward,  full  of  grace. 
He  pray'd,  and  ft-om  a  happy  place 
God's  glory  smote  him  on  the  face." 

The  sullen  answer  slid  betwixt: 

"Not  that  the  grounds  of  hope  were  flx'd. 

The  elements  were  kindlier  mix'd." 

1  said,  "I •toil  beneath  the  curse, 
But,  knowing  not  the  universe, 
I  fear  to  slide  from  bad  to  worse. 

"And  that,  in  seeking  to  undo 
One  riddle,  and  to  And  the  true, 
I  knit  n  hundred  others  new: 

"  Or  th.nt  this  anguish  fleeting  hence, 
Unmnnacled  from  bonds  of  sense. 
Be  flx'd  and  froz'n  to  permanence: 

"For  I  go,  weak  from  suffering  hero  : 
Naked  I  go,  and  void  of  cheer : 
What  is  it  that  I  may  not  fear?" 

"Consider  well,"  the  voice  replied, 

"His  face,  that  two  honrs  since  hath  dierl ; 

Wilt  thou  find  passion,  pain,  or  pride  ? 


"Will  he  obey  when  one  commandti? 
Or  answer  should  one  press  his  hands  r 
He  answers  not,  nor  understands. 

"His  palms  are  folded  on  his  breast: 
There  is  no  other  thing  express'd 
But  long  disquiet  merged  in  rest. 

"His  lips  are  very  mild  and  meek: 
Tho'  one  should  smite  him  on  the  checli. 
And  on  the  mouth,  he  will  not  speak. 

"His  little  daughter,  whose  sweet  face 
He  kiss'd,  taking  h]p  last  embrace, 
Becomes  dishonor  to  her  race— 

"His  sons  grow  up  that  tiear  his  name, 
Some  grow  to  honor,  some  to  shame,— 
But  he  is  chill  to  praise  or  blame. 

"  He  will  not  hear  the  north-wind  rave, 
Nor,  moaning,  household  shelter  crave 
Prom  winter  rains  that  beat  his  grave. 

"High  up  the  vapors  fold  and  swim: 
About  him  broods  the  twilight  dim: 
The  place  he  knew  forgettetb  blm." 

"If  all  be  dark,  vague  voice,"  I  said, 
"These  things  are  wrapt  in  doubt  and  diead, 
Nor  canst  thou  show  the  dead  are  dead. 

"The  sap  dries  up:  the  plant  declines. 

A  deeper  tale  my  heart  divines. 

Know  I  not  Death  t  the  outward  signs  f 

"  I  found  him  when  my  years  were  few  -, 
A  shadow  on  the  graves  I  knew, 
And  darkness  in  the  Tillage  yew. 

"  From  grave  to  grave  the  shadow  crept : 
In  her  still  place  the  morning  wept; 
Touch'd  by  his  feet  the  daisy  slept. 

"The  simple  senses  crown 'd  his  head: 
'Omega  !  thon  art  Lord,'  they  said, 
'We  find  no  motion  in  the  dead.' 

"Why,  if  man  rot  in  dreamless  ease, 
Shonid  that  plain  fact,  as  taught  by  tbefe, 
Not  make  him  sure  that  be  shall  cease f 

"Who  forged  that  other  inflnence, 

That  heat  of  inward  evidence. 

By  which  he  doubts  against  the  sense  f 

"  He  owns  the  fatal  gift  of  eyes, 
That  read  bis  spirit  blindly  wise, 
Not  simple  as  a  thing  that  dies. 

"Here  sits  he  shaping  wings  to  fly: 
His  heart  forebodes  a  mystery: 
He  names  the  name  Eternity. 

"That  type  of  Perfect  in  his  mind 
In  Nature  can  be  nowhere  And. 
He  sows  himself  on  every  wind. 

"He  seems  to  hear  a  Heavenly  Friend, 
And  thro'  thick  veils  to  apprehend 
A  labor  working  to  an  end. 

"  The  end  and  the  beirinning  vex 
His  reason :  many  things  perplex, 
,  With  motions,  checks,  and  counter-checks. 

"  He  knows  a  baseness  in  his  blood 

At  such  strange  wnr  with  something  good, 

He  may  not  do  the  thing  he  would. 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


07 


"  Heaven  oponi  liiwitrd,  rliiiHinK  ynwii, 
Vast  ImMges  In  Kllinmcrlni;  dnwn, 
Half-«huwu,  aro  brukon  niul  xvithdrMwii. 

**Ah!  rare  within  him  and  without, 
Coold  bia  dark  wisdom  And  it  out. 
There  maA  be  anawer  to  hla  doubt 


"  Bnt  thoa  canat  anawer  not  again. 
With  thine  own  weapon  art  thou  alaln, 
Or  then  wilt  anawer  bat  In  vain. 

*'  The  doabt  woald  rest,  I  dare  not  tolve. 
In  the  same  circle  we  revolve. 
Aftsuranco  only  breeda  reaolve." 

As  when  a  billow,  blown  agatnat, 

PatiB  back,  the  voice  with  which  I  fenced 

A  little  ceaaed,  but  recommenced : 

"Where  wert  thou  when  thy  father  play'd 
In  bin  trcm  (Icid,  and  pastime  made, 
A  merry  boy  in  fan  and  sbnde? 

"A  merry  boy  they  called  him  then. 
IIo  Mit  upon  the  knros  of  men 
lu  days  that  never  come  again. 

"Before  the  little  ducts  began 

To  feed  thy  bones  with  lime,  and  ran 

Their  course,  till  thou  wcrt  also  man : 

"  Who  took  a  wife,  who  rear'd  his  race. 
Whose  wrinkles  gather'd  on  his  face, 
Wboee  troubles  number  with  his  days: 

"A  life  of  nothings,  nothing-worth. 
From  that  first  nothing  ere  his  birth 
To  that  laA  nothing  under  earth !" 

"These  words,"  I  said,  "are  like  the  rest, 
No  certain  clearness,  but  at  best 
A  vague  suspicion  of  the  breast: 

"  But  if  I  grant,  thou  might'st  defend 
The  thesis  which  thy  wi>rds  intend — 
That  to  begin  implies  to  end; 

"  Yet  how  should  I  for  certain  hold. 
Because  my  memory  is  so  cold, 
That  I  first  was  in  human  mould? 

"  I  cannot  make  this  matter  plain. 
But  I  would  shoot,  howe'er  in  vaiu, 
A  random  arrow  from  the  brain. 

"It  may  be  that  no  life  is  found. 
Which  only  to  one  engine  bound 
Falls  off,  but  cycles  always  round. 

"As  old  mythologies  relate. 

Some  draught  of  Lethe  might  await 

The  slipping  thro'  from  state  to  state. 

"As  here  we  find  in  trances,  men 
Forget  the  dream  that  happens  then. 
Until  they  fall  in  trance  again. 

"  So  might  we,  if  our  state  were  snch 

As  one  before,  remember  much. 

For  those  two  likes  might  meet  and  touch. 

"  But,  if  I  lapsed  from  nobler  place, 
Some  legend  of  a  fallen  race 
Alone  might  hint  of  my  disgrace ; 

"  Some  vngne  emotion  of  delight 

In  g^cing  up  an  Alpine  height, 

Some  yearning  toward  the  lamps  of  night 

"  Or  if  thro'  lower  lives  I  came — 
Tho'  all  experience  past  became 
Consolidate  in  mind  and  frame— 


"1  might  forpet  my  waakar  lot; 
Fur  Is  nut  our  first  year  IbrgOtf 
The  haunts  of  memory  aeho  not 

"  And  men,  whose  reason  long  was  blind, 
From  colls  of  nudneaa  nncontlned, 
Oft  loM  whole  year*  of  darker  mind. 

"Moch  more,  if  first  I  floated  ftee, 
Aa  naked  eaaenco,  must  I  be 
Inoompalent  of  memory : 

"  For  memory  dealing  but  with  time. 
And  he  with  matter,  could  she  climb 
Beyond  her  own  material  prime? 

"Moreover,  something  is  or  seems, 
That  touches  roe  with  mystic  gleams, 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreama— 

"  Of  aomething  felt,  like  something  here 
Of  something  done,  I  know  not  where ; 
Snch  as  no  language  may  declare.* 

The  still  voice  laugh'd.    "  I  talk,"  said  he, 
"  Not  with  thy  dreams.    Suffice  it  thee 
Thy  pain  la  a  reality." 

"But  thou,"  said  I,  "bast  rolss'd  thy  mark. 
Who  songht'st  to  wreck  my  mortal  ark. 
By  making  all  the  horizon  dark. 

"Why  not  set  forth,  if  I  should  do 
This  rashness,  that  which  might  ensue 
With  this  old  soul  in  organs  new? 

"  Whatever  crazy  sorrow  saith. 

No  life  that  breathes  with  human  breath 

Has  ever  truly  long'd  for  death. 

"'T  is  life,  whereof  our  nerves  are  scant, 

0  life,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant; 
More  life,  and  fuller,  that  I  want" 

1  ceased,  and  sat  as  one  forlorn. 
Then  said  the  voice,  in  quiet  scorn: 
"  Behold,  It  is  the  Sabbath  mom." 

And  I  arose,  and  1  released 

The  casement,  and  the  light  increased 

With  ft'eshness  in  the  dawning  east 

Like  softeu'd  airs  that  blowing  steal. 
When  meres  begin  to  nncongeal. 
The  sweet  church  bells  began  to  peal. 

On  to  Ood's  house  the  people  prest: 
Passing  the  place  where  each  must  rest 
Each  enter'd  like  a  welcome  guest 

One  walk'd  between  his  wife  and  child, 
With  measur'd  footfall  firm  and  mild. 
And  now  and  then  lie  gravely  smiled. 

The  prudent  partner  of  his  blood 
Lean'd  on  him,  faithful,  gentle,  good. 
Wearing  the  rose  of  womanhood. 

And  in  their  double  love  secure. 
The  little  maiden  w.ilk'd  demure. 
Pacing  with  downward  eyelids  pure. 

These  three  made  nnity  so  sweet. 
My  frozen  heart  began  to  beat 
Remembering  its  ancient  heat 

I  blest  them,  and  they  wander'd  on : 
I     I  spoke,  but  answer  came  there  none: 
'     Tho  dull  and  bitter  voice  was  gone. 

I     A  second  voice  was  at  mine  ear, 

j     A  little  whisper  silver-clear, 

I     A  ninrniur,  "Be  of  better  cheer.' 


68 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


As  from  some  blissful  neighborhood, 

A  notice  faintly  understood, 

"  I  Bee  the  end,  and  know  the  good." 

A  little  hint  to  solace  woe, 

A  hint,  a  whisper  breathing  low, 

'J I  may  not  speak  of  what  I  know." 

Like  an  MoWtm  harp  that  wakes 

No  certain  air,  but  overtakes 

Far  thought  with  music  that  it  makes: 

Such  seem'd  the  whisper  at  my  side: 

"  What  is  it  thou  kuowest,  sweet  voice  ?"  I  cried. 

"A  hidden  hope,"  the  voice  replied: 

So  heavenly-toned,  that  in  that  boar 
From  out  my  sullen  heart  a  power 
Broke,  like  the  rainbow  t^om  the  shower, 

To  feel,  altho*  no  tongue  can  prove, 
That  every  cloud,  that  spreads  above 
And  veileth  love,  itnelf  is  love. 

And  forth  into  the  fields  I  went. 
And  Nature's  living  motion  lent 
The  pulse  of  ho|)e  to  discontent. 

I  wonder'd  at  the  bonnteons  boars. 
The  slow  result  of  winter-showers : 
You  scarce  could  see  the  grass  for  flowers. 

I  wonder'd,  while  I  paced  along : 

The  woods  were  flll'd  so  full  with  song, 

There  seem'd  uo  room  for  sense  of  wrong. 

So  variously  seem'd  all  things  wrought, 
I  marvell'd  how  the  mind  was  brought 
To  anchor  by  one  gloomy  thought; 

And  wherefore  rather  I  made  choice 
To  commune  with  that  barren  voice, 
Thau  him  that  said,  "  Rejoice  1  r^oice!" 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOG  OB. 

0  Lm>t  Floba,  let  me  speak: 

A  pleasant  hour  has  past  away 
While,  dreaming  on  your  damask  cheek. 

The  dewy  sister-eyelids  lay. 
As  by  the  lattice  yoa  reclined, 

I  went  thro'  many  wayward  moods 
To  see  you  dreaming— and,  behind, 

A  summer  crisp  M'ith  shining  woods. 
And  I  too  drcam'd,  until  at  last 

Across  my  fancy,  brooding  warm, 
The  reflex  of  a  legend  past, 

And  loosely  settled  into  form. 
And  would  you  have  the  thought  I  had. 

And  see  the  vision  that  I  saw, 
Then  take  the  broidery-frame,  and  add 

A  crimson  to  the  qnaint  Macaw, 
And  I  will  tell  it.    Turn  your  face. 

Nor  look  with  that  too-earnest  eye— 
The  rhj-mes  are  dazzled  from  their  place, 

And  order'd  words  asunder  fly. 

THE  SLEEPING  PALACK 

1. 
The  varying  year  with  blade  and  sheat 

Clothes  and  reclothes  the  happy  plains: 
Here  rests  the  sap  within  the  leaf, 

Here  stays  the  blood  along  the  veins. 
Faint  shadows,  vapors  lightly  curl'd. 

Faint  murmurs  from  the  meadows  come. 
Like  hints  and  echoes  of  the  world 

To  spirits  folded  in  the  womb. 


Soft  lustre  bathes  the  range  of  urns 

On  every  slanting  terrace-lawn. 
The  fountain  to  his  place  returns. 

Deep  in  the  garden  lake  withdrawn. 
Here  droops  the  banner  on  the  tower, 

On  the  hall-hearths  the  festal  fires, 
The  peacock  in  his  laurel  bower, 

The  parrot  ia  his  gilded  wires. 

3. 
Roof-baontiag  martins  warm  their  eggs: 

In  these,  in  those  the  life  is  stay'd. 
The  mantles  from  the  golden  pegs 

Droop  sleepily :  no  sound  is  made, 
Not  even  of  a  gnat  that  sings. 

More  like  a  picture  seemeth  all 
Thau  those  old  portraits  of  old  kings. 

That  watch  the  sleepers  from  the  wall. 


Here  sits  the  bntler  with  a  flask 

Between  bis  knera  half-drained ;  and  there 
The  wrinkled  stewnrd  at  bis  task. 

The  maid-of-honor  blooming  fair: 
The  page  has  caagbt  her  band  in  his : 

Her  lips  are  sever'd  as  to  speak: 
His  own  are  pouted  to  a  kiss: 

The  blush  is  fiz'd  upon  her  cheek. 

S. 
Till  all  the  handred  summers  pass, 

The  beams,  that  through  the  oriel  shine, 
Make  prisms  in  every  carven  glass. 

And  beaker  brimm'd  with  noble  wine. 
Each  baron  at  the  banquet  sleeps, 

Grave  faces  gaiher'd  in  a  ring.  * 
His  state  the  king  reposing  keeps. 

He  most  have  been  a  Jovial  king. 


All  round  a  hedge  npshoots,  and  shows 

At  distance  like  a  little  wood; 
Thorns,  ivies,  woodbine,  mistletoes. 

And  grapes  with  bunches  red  as  blood: 
All  creeping  plants,  a  wall  of  green 

Close-matted,  bur  and  brake  and  brier, 
And  glimpsing  over  these,  Just  seen. 

High  up  the  topmost  palace-spire. 

T. 
When  will  the  hundred  summers  die, 

And  thought  and  time  be  born  again. 
And  newer  knowledge,  drawing  nigh. 

Bring  truth  that  sways  the  soul  of  men  f 
Here  all  things  in  their  place  remain. 

As  all  were  order'd,  ages  since. 
Come,  Care  and  Pleasure,  Hope  and  Pain, 

And  bring  the  fated  Cairy  Prince. 

THE  SLEEPmO  BEAUTY. 

1. 
Year  after  year  unto  her  feet. 

She  lying  on  her  couch  alone. 
Across  the  purpled  coverlet. 

The  maiden's  jet-black  hair  has  grown. 
On  either  side  her  tranced  form 

Forth  streaming  from  a  braid  of  pearl : 
The  slumbrous  light  is  rich  and  warm, 

And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  curl. 


The  silk  star-broider'd  coverlid 
Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould 

Languidly  ever;  and,  amid 
Her  ftill  black  ringlets  downward  roll'd, 


THE  DAT-DREAM. 


68 


Ulows  forth  each  •uniy>ti|i:i(iiiwi>(t  nrm 
With  bnoaleta  of  tlie  dlMiuond  bri|fht : 

llsr  cotutaot  beauty  duib  lururni 
8tUlne«  with  love,  and  day  with  liKht. 


She  eleepe :  her  breathlnga  are  not  heard 

la  palace  chambers  fiu*  apart. 
The  fragrant  tntaaee  are  not  min-'d 

That  lie  upon  her  charmed  brnrt. 
She  sleepa:  on  either  hand  upowella 

The  gold-ft-iugtHl  pillow  IlKliiijr  preat: 
She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  bat  ever  dwells 

A  pertect  form  In  perlbct  rest. 

THE  ARRIVAL. 
1. 
All  precious  thingis,  dlscover'd  late, 

To  those  that  seek  them  issue  forth ; 
For  love  in  sequel  works  with  fate. 

And  draws  the  veil  fhim  bidden  worth. 
He  travels  flir  fhim  other  ^kies — 

His  mantle  );littcrN  on  the  rocks— 
A  fairy  Prince,  with  Joyful  eyes. 

And  lighter-footed  than  the  fox. 


The  bodies  snd  the  bones  of  those 

That  strove  in  other  days  to  pass. 
Are  wither'd  in  the  thorny  close, 

Or  scattered  blanching  on  the  grass. 
He  gazes  on  the  silent  dead, 

"They  perlsh'd  in  their  daring  deeds." 
This  proverb  flashes  thro'  his  bead, 

"The  many  lail:  the  one  succeeds." 


He  comes,  scarce  knowing  what  he  seeks : 

He  breaks  the  hedge:  he  enters  there j 
The  color  flies  into  his  cheeks: 

He  trusts  to  light  on  something  fair; 
For  all  bis  life  the  charm  did  talk 

About  bis  path,  and  hover  near 
With  words  of  promise  in  bis  walk, 

And  whisper'd  voices  at  his  ear. 


More  close  and  close  his  footsteps  wind; 

The  Magic  Music  in  his  heart 
Beats  quick  and  quicker,  till  he  find 

The  quiet  chamber  Car  apart. 
His  spirit  flutters  like  a  lark. 

He  stoops— to  kiss  her— on  his  knee. 
"  Love,  if  thy  tresses  be  so  dark. 

How  dark  those  hidden  eyes  must  be  '." 

THE  REVIVAL, 
1. 

A  touch,  a  kiss  1  the  charm  was  snapt. 

There  rose  a  noise  of  striking  dock?, 
And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  clapt. 

And  barlviiig  dogs,  and  crowing  cocks ; 
A  fuller  light  illnmined  nil, 

A  breeze  thro'  all  the  garden  swept, 
A  sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall. 

And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt 


The  hedge  broke  In,  the  banner  blew. 

The  butler  drank,  the  steward  ^crawl'd. 
The  fire  shot  up,  the  martin  flew, 

The  parrot  scream'd,  the  peacock  squali'd. 
The  maid  and  page  renew'd  their  etrife. 

The  palace  baug'd,  and  bnzz'd,  and  clsrkt, 
And  all  the  long-pent  stream  of  life 

Dash'd  downward  in  a  cataract. 


And  laat  with  thew  the  king  awoke, 

And  in  his  rlmir  himMlf  uprear'd, 
And  yawu'd,  and  rubb'd  his  flice,  and  spoke, 

"By  holy  rood,  a  royal  Iwardl 
How  say  you  t  we  have  ulcpt,  my  lords. 

My  beard  has  grown  Into  my  lap." 
The  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 

T  was  but  an  aftcr-dinucr'ii  nap. 


**  Pardy,"  retnm'd  the  king,  "  but  still 

My  Joints  are  something  stiff  or  so. 
My  lord,  and  ahall  we  pass  the  bill 

I  mention 'd  naif  an  hour  ago?" 
The  chancellor,  sedate  and  vain, 

In  courteouH  words  reluru'd  reply: 
But  dallied  with  his  golden  chain, 

And,  smiling,  put  the  question  by. 

THE  DEPARTURE. 

1. 
And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant. 

And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold. 
And  for  across  the  hills  they  went 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old: 
Across  the  hills,  and  far  away 

IJeyond  their  utmost  purple  rim. 
And  deep  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  princess  follow'd  him. 


"I'd  sleep  another  hundred  years, 

O  love,  for  such  another  kiss ;" 
"O  wake  forever,  love,"  she  hears, 

"O  love,  't  was  such  as  this  and  this.*' 
And  o'er  them  many  a  sliding  star, 

And  many  a  merry  wind  was  borne. 
And,  stream'd  thro'  many  a  golden  bar. 

The  twilight  melted  Into  mom. 


"  O  eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep  1" 

"O  happy  sleep,  that  lightly  fled!" 
"O  happy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep  1" 

"  O  love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the  dead  V 
And  o'er  them  many  a  flowing  range 

Of  vapor  buoy'd  the  crescent-bark. 
And,  rapt  thro'  many  a  rosy  change. 

The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 


"A  hundred  summers!  can  it  bef 

And  whither  goest  thou,  tell  me  where  ?" 
"  O  seek  my  father's  court  with  mo. 

For  there  are  greater  wonders  there." 
And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim. 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day. 

Thro'  all  the  world  she  follow'd  him. 

MORAL. 
1, 
So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay. 

And  if  yon  find  no  moral  there, 
Oo,  look  in  any  glass  and  say. 

What  mora)  is  in  being  fair. 
O,  to  what  uses  shall  we  put 

The  wildweed  flower  that  simply  blowa? 
And  is  there  any  moral  shut 

Within  the  hoeom  of  the  rose? 

9. 

But  any  man  that  walks  the  mead. 
In  bnd  or  blade,  or  bloom,  may  fiud. 

According  as  his  humors  lead, 
A  meaning  snited  to  his  mind. 


70 


AMPHIOX. 


Aud  liberal  applications  lie 
lu  Art  like  Nature,  dearest  friend; 

So  't  were  to  cramp  its  use,  if  I 
Should  book  it  to  some  useful  end. 

L-ENVOL 
1. 
Vou  shake  your  head.    A  random  striug 

Your  fluer  female  sense  oflends. 
Well— were  it  not  a  pleasant  thing 

To  fall  asleep  with  all  one's  friends; 
To  pass  with  all  our  social  ties 

To  silence  from  the  paths  of  men ; 
Aud  every  hundred  years  to  rise 

And  learn  the  world,  aud  sleep  again ; 
To  sleep  thro'  terms  of  mighty  wars, 

And  wake  on  science  grown  to  more. 
On  secrets  of  the  brain,  the  stars, 

As  wild  as  aught  of  foiry  lore ; 
Aud  all  that  else  the  years  will  show, 

The  Poet-forms  of  stronger  hours, 
The  vast  Ke|>ublics  that  may  grow, 

The  Federations  and  the  Powers; 
Titanic  forces  taking  birth 
In  divers  seasons,  divers  climes ; 
For  we  are  Ancients  of  the  earth, 

Aud  in  the  morning  of  the  time*. 

8. 

So  sleeping,  so  aronsed  from  sleep 
Thro'  sunny  decades  new  and  strangt. 

Or  gay  quinquennlads  would  we  reap 
The  flower  aud  qiiintessence  of  chiuigi.-. 

8. 

Ah,  yet  wonld  I— and  would  I  might ! 

So  much  yonr  eyes  my  foucy  take- 
Be  still  the  first  to  leap  to  light 

That  I  might  kiss  those  eyes  awake  1 
For,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong, 

To  choose  your  own  you  did  not  caic; 
You'd  have  my  moral  from  the  song. 

And  I  will  take  my  pleasure  there: 
And,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong. 

My  fiincy,  ranging  thro*  aud  thro', 
To  search  a  menuiiig  for  the  song. 

Perforce  will  still  revert  to  you; 
Nor  finds  a  closer  truth  than  this 

All-graceful  head,  so  richly  curl'd, 
And  evermore  a  costly  kiss 

The  prelude  to  some  brighter  world. 


For  since  the  time  when  Adam  first 

Embraced  his  Eve  in  happy  hour. 
And  every  bird  of  Eden  burst 

In  carol,  every  bud  to  flower, 
What  eyes,  like  thine,  have  waken 'd  hopes  ? 

What  lips,  like  thiue,  so  sweetly  join'd  i 
Where  on  the  double  rosebud  droops 

The  fulness  of  the  pensive  mind ; 
Which  all  too  dearly  self-involved. 

Yet  sleeps  a  dreamless  sleep  to  me ; 
A  sleep  by  kisses  undissolved. 

That  lets  thee  neither  hear  nor  see: 
But  break  it.    In  the  name  of  wife, 

Aud  in  the  rights  that  name  may  give, 
Are  clasp'd  the  moral  of  thy  life. 

And  that  for  which  I  care  tb  lire. 

EPILOGUE. 
So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay. 

And,  if  you  find  a  meaning  there, 
O  whisper  to  your  glass,  and  say, 

"Wliat  wonder,  if  he  thinks  me  fair?" 
What  wonder  I  was  all  unwise, 

To  shape  the  song  for  your  delight. 


Like  long-tail'd  birds  of  Paradise, 
That  float  thro'  Heaven,  and  cannot  lignt  > 

Or  old-world  trains,  upheld  at  court 
By  Cupid-boys  of  blooming  hue— 

But  take  it— earnest  wed  with  sport, 
Aud  either  sacred  unto  you. 


AMPHION. 

Hy  fotber  left  a  park  to  me, 

But  it  is  wild  aud  barren, 
A  garden  too  with  scarce  a  tree 

Aud  waster  than  a  wurren: 
Yet  say  the  neighbors  when  they  call, 

It  is  not  bad  but  good  land. 
And  iu  it  is  the  germ  of  all 

That  grows  within  the  woodlaud. 

O  had  I  lired  when  song  was  great 

In  days  of  old  Amphion, 
And  ta'eu  my  fiddle  to  the  gate. 

Nor  cared  for  seed  or  scion  I 
And  bad  I  lived  when  song  was  great, 

And  legs  of  trees  were  limber. 
And  ta'eu  my  fiddle  to  the  gate, 

Aud  fiddled  in  the  timber! 

*T  is  said  be  bad  a  tnnefUl  tongue. 

Such  happy  iutonatiou. 
Wherever  be  sat  dowu  and  sung 

Ue  left  a  small  plantation ; 
Wherever  in  a  lonely  grove 

He  set  up  his  forlorn  pipes, 
The  gouty  oak  began  to  mome, 

And  fiottuder  into  bompipea. 

The  mountain  stirr'd  its  busby  crown, 

«And,  as  tradition  teaches, 
Young  ashes  pirouetted  down 

Coquetting  with  young  beeches; 
And  briony-vlne  aud  ivy-wreath 

Ran  forward  to  his  rhyming. 
And  from  the  valleys  underneath 

Came  little  copses  climbing. 

The  birch-tree  swang  her  fragrant  hair. 

The  bramble  cast  her  berry, 
The  gin  within  the  Juniper 

Began  to  make  him  merry. 
The  poplars,  In  long  order  due. 

With  cypress  promenaded. 
The  shock-bead  willows  two  and  two 

By  rivers  gallopaded. 

Came  wetpsbot  alder  fl-om  the  ware. 

Came  yews,  a.  dismal  coterie ; 
Each  pluck'd  his  one  foot  from  the  grave, 

Poussetting  with  a  sloe-tree: 
Old  elms  came  breaking  from  the  vine, 

The  vine  stream'd  out  to  follow. 
And,  sweating  rosin,  plump'd  the  pine 

From  many  a  cloudy  hollow. 

And  was  n't  it  a  sight  to  see, 

Wlien,  ere  his  song  was  ended. 
Like  some  great  landslip,  tree  by  tree. 

The  country-side  descended ; 
And  shepherds  from  the  mountain-eaves 

Look'd  down,  half-pleased,  half-frighten'd, 
As  dash'd  about  the  drunken  leaves 

The  random  sunshine  lighten'd ! 

O,  nature  first  was  fresh  to  men, 
And  wanton  without  measure; 

So  youthful  and  so  flexile  then. 
You  moved  her  at  your  pleasure. 


LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


71 


Twaii;;  out,  mjr  fiddle  I  Hlinkc  ihe  twigs! 

And  make  hor  daiu-i*  iiiU'iidMuce; 
Uluw,  flute,  ftud  Bllr  tho  Mtlff-iMit  aprif^ 

Aud  acirrbouii  roota  aud  leuduua. 

T  la  vain  I  In  anch  a  braaay  aga 

I  could  nut  move  a  thiatlo  ; 
Tbu  very  sparrowa  in  the  hedgo 

Scarre  anawer  to  my  whittle ; 
Or  nt  the  moat,  when  three-pnru-sick 

With  atrnmming  aud  with  Kcrapin^, 
A  Jackasa  heehawa  IVum  the  rick, 

The  paaaive  oxen  gapint;. 

Bui  what  ia  that  I  hear?  a  sound 

Like  sleepy  connael  pleadini;: 
C)  Liirtl  <— 't  is  in  my  nelKhbor'a  grouud, 

The  modem  Muses  reading. 
They  rend  Botanic  Treatlacjs 

And  WorkH  on  Giirdeuing  through  tl. 
And  Mcthndw  of  trnnHplantini;  trees, 

To  look  OS  if  they  grew  there. 

The  w1tbor*d  Misses !  how  they  proeo 

O'er  books  of  travell'd  seamen, 
And  show  yon  slips  of  all  that  growi 

From  England  to  Van  Dieinen. 
They  read  in  arbors  c1i|)t  and  cut. 

And  allcyti,  fl>idcd  placci<, 
By  squares  of  tropic  fumnier  shut 

And  warm'd  in  cryatal  caiiCrt. 

But  these,  tho'  fed  with  carefiil  dirt, 

Are  neither  green  nor  i<iippy ; 
Hnlf-consclouR  of  the  i;ar(lcu-.'-quirt, 

The  spludlinjw  look  uiihappy. 
Better  to  me  the  meanest  weed 

That  blows  upon  its  mountain. 
The  vilest  herb  that  runs  to  seed 

Beside  its  native  foiiuutiu. 

And  I  must  work  thro'  months  of  toil. 

And  years  of  cultivation. 
Upon  my  proper  patch  pf  soil 

To  grow  my  own  plantation. 
I'll  take  the  showers  as  they  fall, 

I  will  not  vex  my  bosom: 
Enoush  If  at  the  end  of  9II 

A  little  garden  blossom. 


\\ILL  WATERI^ROOFS  LYRICAL   MON- 
OLOGUE. 

MADE    AT   THE  COCK. 

0  PLCMP  head-waiter  at  The  Cock, 
To  which  1  most  resort. 

How  goes  the  timet     "T  is  five  o'clock. 

Go  fetch  a  pint  of  port : 
But  let  it  not  be  such  as  that 

You  set  b<?fore  chance-comers, 
But  such  whose  father-grape  grew  fat 

On  Lusilauian  summers. 

No  vain  libation  to  the  Muse, 

But  may  she  still  be  kind, 
And  whioper  lovely  words,  and  ose 

Her  influence  on  the  mind. 
To  make  me  write  my  random  rhjrme.-. 

Ere  they  be  half-forgotten ; 
Nor  add  and  alter,  many  times, 

Till  all  be  ripe  and  rotten. 

1  pledge  her,  and  she  comes  and  dips 
Her  laurel  in  the  wine, 

And  lays  it  thrice  upon  my  lIp", 
These  favor'd  lips  of  mine ; 


Until  the  charm  have  power  to  nuke 
New  lifcl)lood  warn  the  boaom, 

And  barren  commonplaces  break 
lu  full  aud  kludly  blosaom. 

I  pl«Mli;e  her  silent  at  the  board . 

Uer  gradual  tlii^'iTH  xtral 
And  touch  u|>oii  the  niuMtcr-chord 

Of  all  I  felt  and  (eel. 
Old  wliihei<,  chosls  of  broken  plan^ 

And  phantom  hopes  assemble; 
And  that  child's  heart  within  the  mnu M 

Begins  to  move  aud  tremble. 

Thro'  many  an  hour  of  summer  suu> 

By  many  pleasant  ways, 
AgaiUHt  its  fountain  u|>\vard  rons 

The  current  of  my  dsyM . 
I  kiHs  the  lips  I  ouce  have  kiss'd 

The  gas-light  wavem  dimmer; 
Aud  softly,  thro'  a  viuous  mist. 

My  college  ffieudships  glimmci' 

I  grow  in  wortli,  and  wit,  and  8eu^c•. 

Unboding  critic-pen, 
Or  that  eternal  want  of  pence, 

Which  vexes  public  men. 
Who  hold  their  hands  to  all,  and  crv 

For  that  which  all  deny  them,— 
W'ho  sweep  the  cronsings,  wet  or  dr^ 

Aud  all  the  world  go  by  them. 

Ah  yet,  tho'  all  the  world  forsake, 

Tho'  fortune  clip  my  wings, 
I  will  not  cramp  my  heart,  nor  take 

Half-views  of  men  and  things. 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  stir  their  blood : 

There  must  be  stormy  weather: 
But  for  some  true  result  of  good 

All  parties  work  together. 

Let  there  be  thistles,  there  are  grapes  i 

If  old  things,  there  arc  new ; 
Ten  thousand  broken  lights  and  shapes, 

Yet  glimpses  of  the  true. 
Let  raffs  be  rife  in  prose  and  rhyme. 

We  lack  not  rhymes  and  reasons. 
As  on  this  whirligig  of  Time 

We  circle  with  the  seasons. 

This  earth  is  rich  in  man  and  maid : 

With  fair  horizons  bound  I 
This  whole  wide  earth  of  light  and  shade 

Comes  out,  a  perfect  round. 
High  over  roaring  Temple-bar, 

And,  set  in  Heaven's  third  story, 
I  look  at  all  things  as  they  arc. 

But  thro'  a  kind  of  glory. 


Head-waiter,  honor'd  by  the  guest 

Half-mused,  or  reeling-ripe. 
The  pint,  yon  brought  me,  was  the  best 

That  ever  came  from  pipe. 
But  tho'  the  port  surpasses  praise. 

My  nerves  have  dealt  with  stiffer. 
Is  there  some  magic  in  the  place  f 

Or  do  my  peptics  differ? 

For  since  I  came  to  live  and  learn. 

No  pint  of  white  or  red 
Had  ever  half  the  power  to  tuni 

This  wheel  within  my  head. 
Which  bears  a  season'd  brain  about, 

Uusnbject  to  confusion, 
Tho'  soak'd  and  saturate,  out  and  out. 

Thro'  every  convolution. 

For  T  am  of  a  numerous  honxe. 
With  many  kinsmeu  gay. 


72 


LYRICAL  MONOLOGLT;. 


Where  long  and  largely  we  carouse, 

As  who  shall  say  me  nay : 
Each  moulh,  a  birthday  coming  on, 

We  drink  defying  trouble. 
Or  sometimes  two  would  meet  in  one, 

And  then  we  drank  it  double , 

Whether  the  vintage,  yet  unkept. 

Had  relish  fiery-new. 
Or,  elbow-deep  in  sawdust,  slept, 

As  old  as  Waterloo; 
Or  stow'd  (when  classic  Canning  died) 

In  musty  bins  and  chambers, 
Had  cast  upon  its  crusty  side 

The  gloom  of  ten  Decembers. 

The  Mnse,  the  Jolly  Mnse,  it  Is  1 

She  answer'd  to  my  call, 
She  changes  with  that  mood  or  this, 

Is  all-in-all  to  all: 
She  lit  the  spark  within  my  throat. 

To  make  my  blood  run  quicker, 
Used  all  her  fiery  will,  and  smote 

Her  life  into  the  liquor. 

And  hence  this  halo  lives  nbont 

The  waiter's  bands,  that  reach 
To  each  his  perfect  pint  of  stout, 

His  proper  chop  to  each. 
He  looks  not  like  the  common  breed 

That  with  the  napkin  dally ; 
I  think  he  came  like  Ganymede, 

From  some  dellgbtfal  valley. 

The  Cock  was  of  a  larger  egg 

Than  modem  poultry  drop, 
Stept  forward  on  a  firmer  leg. 

And  cramm'd  a  plum|)er  crop; 
Upon  an  ampler  dunghill  trod, 

Crow'd  lustier  late  and  early, 
Sipt  wine  from  silver,  praising  Qod, 

And  rakod  in  golden  barley. 

A  private  life  was  all  his  joy. 

Till  in  a  court  he  saw 
A  something-pottle-bodied  boy 

That  knuckled  at  the  taw: 
He  stoop'd  and  clutch'd  him,  fair  and  good. 

Flew  over  roof  and  cnnement  : 
HIb  brothers  of  the  weather  stood 

Stock-still  for  sheer  amazement. 

But  he,  by  farmstead,  thorpe,  and  8pi:«, 

And  follow'd  with  acclaims, 
A  sign  to  many  a  staring  shire. 

Came  crowing  over  Thames. 
Right  down  by  smoky  Paul's  they  bore. 

Till,  where  the  street  grows  straiter, 
One  flx'd  forever  at  the  door, 

And  one  became  head-waiter. 


But  whither  wonld  my  fancy  go? 

How  out  of  place  she  makes 
The  violet  of  a  legend  blow 

Among  the  chops  and  steaks! 
'Tis  but  a  steward  of  the  can, 

One  shade  more  plump  than  common ; 
As  just  and  mere  a  serving-roan 

As  any,  bom  of  woman. 

I  ranged  too  high :  what  draws  me  dow;i 

Into  the  common  day? 
Is  It  the  weight  of  that  half-crown, 

Which  I  shall  hive  to  pay  ? 
For,  something  duller  than  at  first, 

Nor  wholly  comfortable, 
1  sit  (my  empty  glass  reversed), 

And  Uirumming  on  the  table: 


Half  fearful  that,  with  self  at  strife, 

I  lake  myself  to  task ; 
Lest  of  the  ftalness  of  my  life 

I  leave  an  empty  flask: 
For  1  had  hop«,  by  somethiug  rare. 

To  prove  myself  a  poet ; 
But,  while  I  plan  and  plan,  my  hair 

Is  gray  before  I  know  it. 

So  fares  it  since  the  years  began. 

Till  they  be  gather'd  np; 
The  truth,  that  flies  the  flowing  can,. 

Will  haunt  the  vacant  cup: 
And  others'  follies  teach  us  not. 

Nor  much  their  wisdom  teaches ; 
And  most,  of  sterling  worth,  is  whac 

Our  own  experience  preaches. 

Ah,  let  the  rnsty  theme  alone ! 

We  know  not  what  we  know. 
But  for  my  pleasant  hour,  'tis  gone, 

Tis  gone,  and  let  It  go. 
Tis  gone:  a  thonsaud  such  have  slipt 

Away  from  my  embraces, 
And  fall'n  into  the  dusty  crypt 

Of  darken'd  forms  and  faces. 

Go,  therefore,  thou  !  thy  betters  went 

Long  since,  and  came  no  more : 
With  peals  of  genial  clamor  sent 

From  many  a  tavern-door. 
With  twisted  quirks  and  happy  hits, 

From  misty  men  of  letters ; 
The  tAvern-honrs  of  mighty  wits,— 

Thine  elders  and  thy  betters. 

Hours,  when  the  Poet's  words  and  looks 

Had  yet  their  native  glow: 
Not  yet  the  fear  of  little  books 

Had  made  him  talk  for  show; 
Bat,  all  his  vast  heart  sherris-warm'd 

He  flash'd  his  random  speeches; 
Ere  days,  that  deal  In  ana,  swann'd 

His  literary  leeches. 

So  mix  forever  with  the  past. 

Like  all  good  things  on  earth  I 
For  should  I  prize  thee,  conld'st  thon  last. 

At  half  thy  real  worth? 
I  hold  It  good,  good  things  should  pass: 

With  time  I  will  not  quarrel: 
It  is  but  yonder  empty  glass 

That  makes  me  maudlin-moral. 


Head-waiter  of  the  cbop-hooee  bere^ 

To  which  I  most  resort, 
I  too  mast  part :  I  hold  thee  dear 

For  this  good  pint  of  port. 
For  this,  thoa  shall  from  all  things  snck 

Marrow  of  mirth  and  laughter: 
And,  wheresoe'er  thou  move,  good  luck 

Shall  fling  her  old  shoe  after. 

But  thon  wilt  never  move  from  hence, 

The  sphere  thy  fate  allots: 
Thy  latter  days  increased  with  pence 

Go  down  among  the  pots: 
Thou  baltenest  by  the  greasy  gleam 

In  haunts  of  hungry  sinners, 
Old  boxes,  larded  with  the  steam 

Of  thirty  thousand  dinners. 

We  fret,  we  fume,  would  shift  our  skins, 

Wonld  quarrel  with  our  lot: 
Tkjf  care  Is,  under  polish'd  tins, 

To  serve  the  hot-and-hot; 
To  come  and  go,  and  come  again, 

Returning  like  the  pewit, 
.\nd  watch'd  by  silent  gentlemen, 

That  trifle  with  the  cniet. 


TO 


-.—LADY  CLARE. 


rn 


lire  IntiK,  ere  flrom  thy  topmost  boftd 

The  thick-aei  hnxel  dies; 
Long,  era  Uie  hutefal  cniw  shall  trMd 

The  oornen  of  thine  oyM: 
Live  long,  nor  fsel  in  hend  or  chett 

()ar  ohaugeftil  equiooxee, 
TIH  mellow  Death,  like  aome  late  gneat, 

Shall  call  tbcc  from  tho  boxes. 


Bat  when  he  caIK  and  thou  ahalt 

To  pace  the  gritted  floor, 
And,  laying  down  an  nnctuooa  lease 

Of  life,  ahalt  earn  no  more : 
N»  carred  crosa-bono*,  the  types  of  Deatli, 
I    Shall  show  thee*po«t  to  Heaven; 
Bnt  carved  croas-plpea,  and,  underneath, 

A  plut-pot,  neatly  graven. 


TO 


ATTBR  RBANNO  A   UFB  Aim  LBTTEB8. 

"  Caiwd  b*  Im  that  omtm  mj  hnttm," 

Bkut$tp*mn't  SpUmfk, 

Yon  might  have  won  the  Poet's  name, 
If  snch  be  worth  the  wiuulug  now, 
And  gain'd  a  lanrel  for  your  brow 

Of  sounder  leaf  than  I  can  claim ; 

Bnt  yon  have  made  the  wiser  choice, 
A  life  that  moves  to  gracious  ends 
Thro'  tnKips  of  nnrecordlug  Mends, 

A  deedfkil  lire,  a  silent  voice: 

And  yon  have  miss'd  the  irreverent  doom 
Of  those  that  wear  tlie  Poet's  crown : 
Hereafter,  neither  knave  uur  clown 

Shall  hold  their  org:ies  at  your  tomb. 

For  now  the  Poet  cannot  die 
Kur  leave  bis  music  as  of  old, 
Bnt  round  him  ere  he  scarce  be  cold 

Begins  the  scandal  and  the  cry: 

"  Proclaim  the  faults  be  would  not  show : 
Break  lock  and  seal:  betray  the  trust: 
Keep  nothing  sacred :  't  is  but  Just 

The  many-headed  beast  should  know." 

Ah  shameless!  for  he  did  but  sing 
A  son?  that  pleased  as  trom  its  worth; 
No  public  life  was  his  on  earth, 

No  blazon'd  statesman  he,  nor  king. 

He  gave  the  people  of  his  best : 
His  worot  he  kept,  his  best  he  gave. 
My  Shakespeare's  curse  on  clown  and  knave 

Who  will  not  let  hia  ashes  rest ! 

Who  make  it  seem  more  sweet  to  be 

The  Utile  life  of  bank  and  brier. 

The  bird  that  pipes  his  lone  desire 
And  dies  unheard  within  his  tree. 

Than  he  that  warbles  long  and  loud 
And  drops  at  Glory's  temple-gates. 
For  whom  the  carrion  vulture  waits 

To  tear  his  heart  before  the  crowd ! 


LADY  CLARE. 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow. 
And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air. 

Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin.  Lady  Clare. 

I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn : 
I»ver»  long-betroth'd  were  they: 


They  two  will  wod  the  morrow  moru : 
Ood'a  bleMlug  on  the  day  I 

"  He  doe*  not  low  me  tor  my  birth. 
Nor  for  my  lands  ao  broad  and  fair : 

He  lovea  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  ia  well,"  said  Lady  Clara. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse. 
Said,  "Who  was  this  that  went  fhim  thee*' 

"  It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare 
"To-morrow  be  weda  with  me." 

"O  Ood  bo  thank'd  I"  said  Alice  the  nnn<c, 
"  That  all  comes  round  ao  Just  and  fair : 

Lord  Konald  la  heir  of  all  your  lands, 
Aud  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my  nurse f" 
Said  Lady  Clare,  ••  that  ye  s|)eak  so  wUdt" 

"As  Qod  's  above,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"I  speak  the  truth :  you  are  my  child. 

"  Tho  old  Earl's  daughter  died  at  my  breast : 
I  vpoiik  tlio  truth,  aa  I  live  by  bread  I 

I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child, 
And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 

"Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

0  mother,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be  true, 
To  keep  the  beet  man  under  the  sun 

So  many  years  flrom  jiis  due." 

"Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 
And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald's, 

When  you  are  man  aud  wife." 

"  If  I'm  a  beggar  bom,"  she  said, 
"  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie. 

Pull  off,  pull  off,  the  broach  of  gold, 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by." 

"Nay  now,  my  child," said  Alice  the  nar»e, 

"  Bnt  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can." 
She  said  "Not  so:  but  I  will  know 

If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

"  Nay  now,  what  faith  t"  said  Alice  the  nur? e, 
""The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right." 

"  And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lady  repiled, 
"Tho'  I  should  die  to-night." 

"Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dear' 

Alas,  my  child,  I  sinn'd  for  thee." 
"O  mother,  mother,  mother,"  she  said, 

"So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

"  Yet  here's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear. 

My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so. 
And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head. 

And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 

She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown. 

She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare : 
She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  down. 

With  a  single  rose  In  her  hair. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had  bronphc 

Leapt  up  fi-om  where  she  lay, 
Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand. 

And  followed  her  all  the  way. 

Down  stept  Lord  Ronald  fi-om  his  tower ; 

"  O  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your  worth ! 
WTiy  come  you  drest  like  a  village  malil, 

That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ?" 

"  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid, 

1  am  bnt  as  my  fortunes  are : 
I  am  a  b^cgar  bom,"  she  said, 

"And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 


74 


ST.  AGNES. 


"  Play  me  uo  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  in  deed, 

Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

O  and  proudly  stood  she  up! 

Her  heart  withiu  her  did  not  fail: 
She  look'd  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes. 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

lie  laugh 'd  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn : 
He  turu'd,  and  kiss'd  her  where  she  Bt<<od : 

"If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born. 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  next  in  blood— 

"If  you  are  not  the  heiress  bom, 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  lawful  heir. 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  mom. 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 


ST.  AGNES. 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon: 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goo : 

Hay  my  Boal  follow  soon  I 
The  shadows  of  the  con  vent- to  wen 

Slant  down  the  snowy  Bward, 
Btlll  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord : 


Make  Thou  ray  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies. 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

Ab  these  white  robes  are  soiled  and  dark. 

To  yonder  shining  ground ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark. 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb. 

My  spirit  before  Thee; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am. 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens,  O  Lord !  and  far,  ^ 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen,  " 

Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go; 
AH  heaven  bursts  her  slurry  floors, 

And  strews  her  lights  below, 
And  deepens  on  and  upl  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waitii. 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide— 
A  light  upon  the  sbintug  sea— 

Th<>  Bridegroom  with  hla  bride' 


'Deep  .•][  lui-  convciu-r.x.i  u„- 
Are  iparkllng  to  the  moon.' 


BIB  GALAHAD. 


"  Tbe  aUlU  *n  void,  the  doon  *n  wide, 
Tlw  U|>«n  burning  tail." 


SIR  GALAHAD. 

Mr  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men. 

My  tough  lance  thrustetb  sure,  ■ 
My  strength  Is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

iiecanse  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  ehrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly. 

The  horse  and  rider  reel : 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists. 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perftime  and  flowers  fall  in  showers. 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

IIow  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  fiiTors  fall ! 
For  them  I  battle  to  the  end. 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall: 
Dut  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above. 

My  knecH  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and  ehriii':' 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love. 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 
More  bonnteous  aspects  on  me  beam. 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrii. : 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Itetween  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  1  ri'ie ; 

I  hear  a  voice,  bnt  none  are  there : 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doon<  are  wide. 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  qutrkle  clean, 


The  Hhrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swinirs, 
And  solemn  chants  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  moon  tain-meres 

I  And  a  magic  bark ; 
I  leap  on  board:  no  helmsman  steers: 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sonud,  an  awful  light ! 

"Three  angels  l)ear  the  holy  Grall : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  while. 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blesned  vinion '.  blood  of  God  ! 

My  si)irit  beats  her  mortal  bare, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides. 

And  star-like  mingles  with  tbe  surs. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go, 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn. 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads. 

And,  ringing,  spins  from  brand  and  mail 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads, 

.\nd  gilds  the  driving  hnll. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields: 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A  maiden  knight— to  me  is  given 

Such  hoi)e,  I  know  not  fear  : 
I  yonm  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease. 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beaniv, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace. 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams; 


70 


TO  E.  L.— THE  LORD  OF  BURLEIGH. 


And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand. 
This  mortal  armor  that  I  wear, 

This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 
Are  toncb'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mouutaiu-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falU. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear: 
"O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God  I 

Ride  on !  the  prize  is  near." 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
AU-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide, 

Until  I  And  the  holy  Grail. 


TO  E.  L.,  ON  HIS  TRAVELS  IN  GREECE. 

Illykian  woodlands,  echoing  falls 
Of  water,  sheets  of  summer  glass, 
The  long  divine  Peneian  pass, 

The  vast  Akrokerauniau  walls, 

Tomohrit,  Athos,  all  things  ftdr, 
With  such  a  pencil,  such  a  ]>eD, 
Ton  shadow  forth  to  distant  men, 

I  read  and  felt  that  I  was  there: 

And  trust  me  while  I  tnm'd  the  page. 
And  track'd  you  still  on  classic  ground, 
I  grew  in  gladness  till  I  found 

My  spirits  in  the  golden  age. 

For  me  the  torrent  ever  pour'd 
And  gllsten'd— here  and  there  alone 
The  broad-limb'd  Gods  at  random  thrown 

By  fountain-urns ;— and  Naiads  oar'd 

A  glimmering  shoulder  under  gloom 

Of  cavern  pillars ;  on  the  swell 

The  silver  Illy  heaved  and  fell: 
And  many  a  slope  was  rich  in  bloom 

From  him  that  on  the  mountain  lea 
By  dancing  rivulets  fed  his  flocks. 
To  him  who  sat  upon  the  rocks, 

And  fluted  to  the  morning  sea. 


THE  LORD  OF  BURLEIGH. 

In  her  ear  he  whispers  gayly, 

"  If  my  heart  by  signs  can  tell. 
Maiden,  I  have  watch "d  thee  daily. 

And  I  think  thou  lov'st  me  well." 
She  replies,  in  accents  fainter, 

"There  is  none  I  love  like  thee." 
Ho  is  but  a  landscape-painter. 

And  a  village  maiden  she. 
He  to  lips,  that  fondly  falter. 

Presses  his  without  repro«>f : 
Leads  her  to  the  village  altar. 

And  they  leave  her  father's  roof. 
"  I  can  make  no  marriage  present ; 

Little  can  I  give  my  wife. 
Love  will  make  onr  cottage  pleasant. 

And  I  love  thee  more  than  life." 
They  by  parks  and  lodges  going 

See  the  lordly  castles  stand : 
Summer  woods,  about  them  blowing. 

Made  a  murmur  in  the  land. 
From  deep  thought  himself  he  rouses, 

Says  to  her  that  loves  him  well. 


"  Let  us  see  ftiese  handsome  bouses 

Where  the  wealthy  nobles  dwell." 
So  she  goes  by  him  attended, 

Hears  him  lovingly  converse. 
Sees  whatever  fair  and  splendid 

Lay  betwixt  his  home  and  hers; 
Parks  with  oak  and  chestnut  shady, 

Parks  and  order'd  gardens  great. 
Ancient  homes  of  lord  and  lady. 

Built  for  pleasure  and  for  state. 
All  he  shows  her  makes  him  dearer : 

Evermore  she  seems  to  gaze 
On  that  cottage  growing  nearer. 

Where  they  twain  will  spend  their  days. 
O  but  she  will  love  him  truly ! 

He  shall  have  a  cheerful  home ; 
She  will  order  all  things  duly. 

When  beneath  his  roof  they  come. 
Thus  her  heart  rejoices  greatly, 

Till  a  gateway  she  discerns 
With  armorial  bearings  stately. 

And  beneath  the  gate  she  turns; 
Sees  a  mansion  more  m^esttc 

Than  all  those  she  saw  before: 
Many  a  gallant  gay  domestic 

Bows  before  him  at  the  door. 
And  they  speak  in  gentle  murmur. 

When  they  answer  to  his  call. 
While  he  treads  with  footstep  flnner. 

Leading  on  from  hall  to  halL 
And,  while  now  she  wonders  blindly, 

Nor  the  meaning  can  dirine, 
Prondly  turns  be  round  and  kindly, 

"All  of  this  is  mine  and  thine." 
Here  be  lives  in  state  and  bounty. 

Lord  of  Burleigh,  fair  and  tree, 
Not  a  lord  in  all  the  cofinty 

Is  so  great  a  lord  as  he. 
All  at  once  the  color  flushes 

Her  sweet  face  from  brow  to  chin : 
As  it  were  with  shame  she  blushes. 

And  her  spirit  changed  within. 
Then  her  countenance  all  over 

Pale  again  as  death  did  prove : 
But  be  clasp'd  her  like  a  lover. 

And  he  cbeer'd  her  soul  with  love. 
So  she  strove  against  her  weakness, 

Tbo'  at  times  her  spirits  sank: 
Shaped  her  heart  with  woman's  meekness 

To  all  duties  of  her  rank: 
And  a  gentle  consort  made  he. 

And  her  gentle  mind  was  such 
That  she  grew  a  noble  lady. 

And  the  people  loved  her  much. 
But  a  trouble  weigh'd  upon  her, 

And  perplex'd  her,  night  and  mom. 
With  the  burden  of  an  honor 

Unto  which  she  was  not  bom. 
Faint  she  grew,  and  ever  fainter. 

As  she  murmur'd,  "O,  that  he 
Were  once  more  that  laudscape-painter. 

Which  did  win  my  heart  from  me  1" 
So  she  droop'd  and  droop"d  before  hira, 

Fading  slowly  from  his  side: 
Three  fair  children  first  she  bore  him. 

Then  before  her  time  she  died- 
Wecping,  weeping  late  and  early. 

Walking  up  and  pacing  down. 
Deeply  mourn "d  the  Lord  of  Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house  by  Stamford-town. 
And  he  came  to  look  upon  her. 

And  he  look'd  at  her  and  said, 
"Bring  the  dress  and  put  it  on  her. 

That  she  wore  when  i-he  was  wed." 
Then  her  people,  softly  treading. 

Bore  to  earth  her  body,  drest 
In  the  dress  that  she  was  wed  in. 

That  her  spirit  might  have  rest. 


EDWARD  GRAY.— SIR  LAUKCELOT  AND  QUEEN  < 


UE. 


EDWARD  GRAY. 

SwuT  Kmmii  Murelaud  of  yonder  town 
M«t  in«  walking  on  yonder  way, 

"And  have  yon  loat  your  haartf"  she  aald: 
"  And  are  yoa  married  yet,  Kdward  Gray  1" 

Sweet  Emma  Morcland  apoke  to  me: 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away : 

"Sweet  Emma  Moreland,  luvc  no  more 
Can  tonch  the  heart  of  Edward  Uray. 

"Ellen  Adair  nho  loved  mc  well, 
Against  her  father's  and  mother's  will : 

To-day  I  sat  for  an  hour  and  wept. 
By  Ellen's  grave,  on  the  windy  hilL 

"Shr  she  wa^  and  I  tbonijht  her  cold; 

Thought  her  proud,  nnci  fled  over  the  sea : 
Fiira  I  wns  with  folly  and  upltc, 

When  Ellen  Adair  was  dying  for  me. 

■'  (.'niel,  cmcl  the  words  I  nald  ! 
Cruelly  came  they  back  to-day: 


'Ton  *n  too  slight  «....  u. ....  I  said, 
'To  trouble  the  heart  of  Kdward  Gray. 

"  There  I  pnt  my  ftire  In  the  gru»— 
WhispiT'd,  '  Lli>t«>n  to  my  deapftir: 

I  repent  me  of  nil  I  did : 
Speak  a  little,  Ellen  Adair !' 

"  Then  I  took  a  pencil  and  wrote 
On  the  mossy  stone,  as  I  lay, 

'Here  Uea  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair, 
And  tan  the  heart  of  Edward  Orny  !' 

"Love  may  come,  and  love  may  go, 
And  fly,  like  a  bird,  tVom  tree  to  tree  - 

Out  I  will  love  no  more,  no  more, 
Till  Ellen  Adair  come  back  to  me. 


"  Bitterly  wept  I  over  the  stone; 

Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away: 
There  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair  I 

And  there  the  heart  of  Edward  Oray !' 


'^H'V.t. 


"Sweet  Kmnia  HonUod  >pok«  to  n 
BtUariy  WMplng  I  tarn'd  awmjr.' 


SIR  LAUNCELOT  AXD  QUEEN  GUINE- 
VERE. 

A   FKAGXENT. 

Luck  sonls  that  balance  Joy  and  pain, 
With  tears  and  smiles  from  heaven  again 
The  maiden  Spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a  sunlit  foil  of  rain. 

In  crystal  vapor  ever3rwhere 
Bine  Isles  of  heaven  laugh'd  between, 
And,  far  In  forest-deeps  unseen, 
The  topmost  elm-tree  gather'd  green 

From  draughts  of  balmy  air. 


Sometimes  the  linnet  piped  his  song: 
Sometimes  the  throstle  whistled  strong: 
Sometimes  the  sparhawk,  wheel'd  along, 
Uosh'd  all  the  groves  from  fear  of  wronc 

By  grassy  ca|)e8  with  (bller  sound 
In  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran, 
And  drooping  chestnut-buds  began 
To  spread  Into  the  perfect  fan, 

Above  the  teeming  ground. 

Then,  In  the  boyhood  of  the  year. 
Sir  Lanncdot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Rode  thro'  the  coverts  of  the  deer, 
With  blissAil  treble  ringing  clear. 


A  FAREWELL.— THE  VISION  OF  SIN. 


She  Beem'd  a  part  of  joyoas  Spring; 
A  gown  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore, 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before; 
A  light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 

Closed  in  a  golden  ring. 

Now  on  some  twisted  ivy-net, 

Now  by  some  tinkling  rivulet, 

Jn  niosges  mixt  with  violet 

Her  cream-white  mule  his  pastern  set; 

And  fleeter  now  she  skimm'd  the  plains 
Than  the  whose  elfln  prancer  springs 
By  night  to  eery  warblings, 
When  all  the  glimmering  moorland  rings 

With  jingling  bridle-relne. 

As  she  fled  fast  thro'  sun  and  shade, 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  play'd, 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid: 
She  look'd  so  lovely,  as  she  sway'd 

The  rein  with  dainty  flnger-tips, 
A  man  bad  given  all  other  bliss. 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this. 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  klse 

Upon  her  perfect  lips. 


A  FAREWELL. 

F1.0W  down,  cold  rivnlet,  to  the  tea. 

Thy  tribute  wave  deliver: 
No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be. 

Forever  and  forever. 

Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A  rivulet  then  a  river: 
Nowhere  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be. 

Forever  and  forever. 

Bat  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree, 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver; 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bco, 
Forever  and  forever. 

A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A  thonsaod  moons  will  quiver; 

Bnt  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
Forever  and  forever. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN. 
1. 
I  HAP  a  vision  when  the  night  was  late: 
\  youth  came  riding  toward  a  pnlace-jrate. 
>Ie  rode  a  horse  with  wings,  that  would  have  flown, 
But  that  his  heavy  rider  kept  him  down. 
And  from  the  palace  came  a  child  of  sin. 
And  took  him  by  the  curls,  and  led  him  in. 
Where  eat  a  company  with  heated  eyes. 
Expecting  when  a  fountain  should  arise: 
A  sleepy  light  upon  their  brows  and  lips— 
As  when  the  sun,  a  crescent  of  eclipse. 
Dreams  over  lake  and  lawn,  and  isles  and  capes — 
SnflHised  them,  sitting,  lying,  languid  shapes. 
By  heaps  of  gourds,  and  skins  of  wine,  and  piles  of 
grapes. 


Then  methonght  I  henrd  a  mellow  sound, 
Gathering  up  from  all  the  lower  ground ; 
Narrowing  in  to  where  they  sat  assembled 
Low  voluptuons  music  winding  trembled, 
Wov'n  in  circles :  they  that  heard  it  sigh'd. 
Panted  hand  in  hand  with  faces  pale. 


Swung  themselves,  and  in  low  tones  replied ; 

Till  the  fountain  spouted,  showering  wide 

Sleet  of  diamond-drift  and  pearly  hail ; 

Then  the  music  touch'd  the  gates  and  died* 

Rose  again  from  where  it  seem'd  to  fail, 

Storm'd  in  orbs  of  song,  a  growing  gale ; 

Till  thronging  in  and  in,  to  where  they  waited. 

As  't  were  a  hundred-throated  nightingale, 

The  strong  tempestuous  treble  throbb'd  and  palpi. 

tated ; 
Ran  into  its  giddiest  whirl  of  sound. 
Caught  the  sparkles,  and  in  circles. 
Purple  gauzes,  golden  hazes,  liquid  mazes. 
Flung  the  torrent  rainbow  round: 
Then  they  started  from  their  places. 
Moved  with  violence,  changed  in  hue. 
Caught  each  other  with  wild  grimaces, 
Half-invisible  to  the  view. 
Wheeling  with  precipitate  paces 
To  the  melody,  till  they  flew. 
Hair,  and  eyes,  and  limbs,  and  faces. 
Twisted  hard  in  fierce  embraces, 
Like  to  Furies,  like  to  Graces, 
Dash'd  together  in  blinding  dew: 
Till,  kill'd  with  some  luxurious  agony. 
The  nerve-dissolving  inclody 
Flutter'd  headlong  from  the  sky. 

8. 
And  then  I  look'd  op  toward  a  moantain-tract. 
That  Rirt  the  region  with  high  cltfT  and  lawu : 
I  saw  that  every  morning,  far  withdrawn 
Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  cataract, 
God  made  himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn. 
Unheeded:  and  detaching,  fold  by  fold. 
From  those  still  heights,  and,  slowly  drawing  ncai, 
A  vapor  heavy,  hneless,  formless,  cold. 
Came  floating  on  fur  many  a  month  and  year. 
Unheeded :  and  I  thought  I  wonid  have  spoken. 
And  warned  that  madman  ere  it  grew  too  late: 
But,  as  in  dreams,  I  could  not    Mine  was  broken. 
When  that  cold  vai>or  touch'd  the  palace  gate. 
And  link'd  again.    I  saw  within  my  head 
A  gray  and  gap-tooth'd  man  as  lean  as  death. 
Who  slowly  rude  across  a  wither'd  heath. 
And  lighted  at  a  min'd  inn,  and  said : 


"  Wrinkled  hostler,  grim  aqd  thin  : 
Here  is  custom  come  yonr  way 

Take  my  brute,  and  lead  him  in. 
Stuff  his  ribs  with  mouldy  hay. 

"  Bitter  barmaid,  waning  flut ! 

See  that  sheets  are  on  my  bed; 
What!  the  flower  of  life  is  past: 

It  is  long  before  yon  wed. 

"Slip-shod  waiter,  lank  and  soar, 
At  the  Dragon  on  the  heath  1 

Let  us  have  a  quiet  hour. 
Let  us  hob-and-nob  with  Death. 

"I  am  old,  but  let  me  drink; 

Bring  me  spices,  bring  me  wine . 
I  remember,  when  I  think. 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine. 

"  Wine  is  good  for  shrivell'd  lips. 
When  a  blanket  wraps  the  day. 

When  the  rotten  woodland  drips, 
And  the  leaf  is  stamp'd  in  clay. 

"  Sit  thee  down,  and  have  no  shame. 
Cheek  by  jowl,  and  knee  by  knee : 

What  care  I  for  any  name? 
What  for  order  or  degree? 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN. 


7n 


■'  Let  me  arrew  tbM  op  a  peg: 
l.ci  mo  UM>»e  thy  tODgue  wttb  wlnei 

i'i\llcxt  tbuu  that  thing  a  leg? 
Which  Is  thiunontf  thine  or  mlnef 

"Thoa  sbalt  not  be  nved  by  works: 

Thou  haat  been  a  Binnor  too : 
Rnin'd  tranks  on  witber'd  furku, 

Knipty  acarecrowv,  I  and  you ! 

■'  Fill  the  cnp,  and  flll  the  ran : 

Hiivc  a  r<>ui>p  bi'foro  the  luorn : 
Bvory  moment  di4l  a  man, 

Every  moment  one  Is  born. 

"  Wo  are  men  of  rnin'd  blood ; 

Therefore  come*  it  we  arc  wlae. 
Fi»h  are  we  that  love  the  mud, 

Rising  to  no  fancy-flies. 

"  Name  and  fkme  I  to  fly  snbllme 

Through  the  courts,  the  camp»,  the  schools, 
Is  to  be  the  bull  of  Time, 

Bandied  in  the  hands  of  fools. 

"  Friendship !— to  be  two  in  one- 
Let  the  canting  liar  pack  ! 

Well  I  know,  when  I  am  gone, 
Uow  she  months  Itehind  my  back. 

"  Virtue !— to  be  good  and  just — 

Kvcry  heart,  when  sifted  well, 
Is  a  clot  of  warmer  dnst, 

Mix'd  with  cunning  sparks  of  hell. 

"  O :  we  two  as  well  can  look 

Whited  thought  and  cleanly  life 
As  the  priest,  above  his  book 

Leering  at  his  neighbor's  wife. 

"Fill  the  cnp,  and  fill  the  can: 

Have  a  rouse  before  the  mom : 
Every  moment  diesi  a  man. 

Every  moment  one  is  bom. 

"Drink,  and  let  the  parties  rave: 

They  nre  llll'd  with  Idle  spleen; 
Ki!<ing,  fallin'.',  like  a  wave, 

For  they  know  not  what  they  mean. 

"He  that  roars  for  liberty 

Faster  binds  a  tyrant's  power; 
And  the  tyrant's  cmel  glee 

Forces  on  the  freer  hour. 

"  Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup : 

All  the  windy  ways  of  men 
Are  bnt  dnst  that  rises  up, 

And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

"Greet  her  with  applausive  breath, 

Freedom,  gayly  doth  she  tread; 
In  her  rifjht  a  civic  wreath, 

In  her  left  a  human  bead 

•'No,  I  love  not  what  is  new; 

She  is  of  nn  ancient  honse : 
And  I  think  we  know  the  hue 

Of  that  cap  upon  her  brows. 

"  Let  her  go !  her  thirst  she  slakca 
Where  the  bloody  conduit  runs: 

Then  her  sweetest  meal  she  makes 
On  the  first-born  of  her  sons. 

•'Drink  to  lofty  hopes  that  cool  — 

Visions  of  a  perfect  State : 
Drink  we,  last,  the  public  fool. 

Frantic  love  and  frantic  hate. 

"Chant  me  now  some  wicked  stare. 
T'l  thy  drooping  conrage  rise. 


And  the  glow-worm  of  the  grave 
Ulimmer  In  thy  rheumy  eyes. 

"Fear  not  thoo  to  Ioom  tJiy  tongue : 

Bet  thy  hoary  fiuclea  f^ee : 
What  Is  ioathaome  to  the  youog 

Savors  well  to  thee  and  me. 

"  Change,  reverting  to  the  years. 
When  thy  nerves  oonld  uudonland 

What  there  Is  In  loving  tears, 
And  the  warmth  of  band  in  hand. 

"Tell  me  tales  of  thy  first  love— 
April  hopes,  the  fools  of  chance : 

Till  the  graves  begin  to  move, 
And  the  dead  begin  to  dance. 

"  Flll  the  can,  and  flll  the  cnp : 

All  the  windy  ways  oi  moo 
Are  but  dust  that  rises  op, 

And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

"Trooping  ft^om  their  mouldy  dens 

The  chap-ftUlcn  circle  spreads: 
Welcome,  fellow-citixens, 

Hollow  hearts  and  empty  heads'. 

"  Yon  are  bones,  and  what  of  that  i 

Every  face,  however  fiill. 
Padded  round  with  flesh  and  fat. 

Is  but  modell'd  on  a  skull. 

"Death  is  king,  and  Vivat  Rex! 

Tread  a  measure  on  the  stones. 
Madam — if  I  know  your  sex, 

From  the  fashion  of  your  bones. 

"  No,  I  cannot  praise  the  flre 

In  your  eye — nor  yet  your  lip: 
All  the  more  do  I  admire 

Joints  of  cunning  workmanship. 

"Lol  God's  likeness — the  ground-plaii- 
Neither  modell'd,  glazed,  or  framed. 

Buss  me,  thou  rough  sketch  of  man, 
Far  too  naked  to  be  shamed ! 

"  Drink  to  Fortune,  drink  to  Chance, 

While  we  keep  a  little  breath  1 
Drink  to  heavy  Ignorance  ! 

Hob-and-nob  with  brother  Death  1 

"Thou  art  mazed,  the  night  is  long, 

And  the  longer  night  is  near: 
What!  I  am  not  all  a^ wrong 

As  a  bitter  Jest  is  oRir. 

"Touthftal  hopes,  by  scores,  to  all, 
When  the  locks  are  crisp  and  curl'd  . 

Unto  me  my  maudlin  gall 
And  my  mockeries  of  the  world. 

"  Fill  the  cnp,  and  flll  the  can ! 

Mingle  madness,  mingle  scorn! 
Dregs  of  life,  and  lees  of  man : 

Yet  we  will  not  die  forlorn." 

R. 
The  voice  grew  faint:  there  came  a  fhrther  chnn'.'r 
Once  more  uprose  the  mystic  monntaiu-rauge: 
Below  were  men  and  horses  pierced  with  worms, 
And  slowly  quickening  into  lower  forms ; 
By  shards  and  scurf  of  salt,  and  scum  of  dross. 
Old  plash  of  rains,  and  refuse  patch'd  with  moss. 
Then  some  one  spake :  "  Behold !  it  was  a  crime 
Of  sense  avenged  by  sense  that  wore  with  time  - 
Another  said :  "  The  crime  of  sense  became 
The  crime  of  malice,  and  is  equal  blame." 


80 


THE  EAGLE. 


And  one :  "  He  had  not  wholly  qnencb'd  his  power ; 
A  little  grain  of  conscience  made  him  sour." 
At  I»Bt  I  heard  a  voice  upon  the  elope 
Cry  to  the  summit,  "Is  there  any  hopef" 
To  which  an  answer  i>eard  from  that  high  land, 
But  in  a  tongue  no  man  could  understand; 
And  on  the  glimmering  limit  far  withdrawn 
God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn. 


Come  not,  when  I  am  dead, 

To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my  grave, 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 

And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou  wouldst  not  save. 
There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the  plover  cry ; 
But  thon,  go  by. 

Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy  crime 

I  care  no  longer,  being  all  nnblest : 
Wed  whom  thoa  wilt,  bnt  I  am  aick  of  Time, 

And  I  detiire  to  rest.  * 

PaM  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me  where  I  lie: 
Go  by,  go  by. 


THE   EAGLE. 

FBAOMBNT. 

He  cla«pa  the  crag  with  booked  bando ; 
Close  to  the  snn  in  lonely  lands, 
Uiug'd  with  tbe  axure  world,  be  atanda. 


The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls. 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falLi. 


IIOYX  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow ; 

From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 
O,  happy  planet,  eagtward  go: 

Till  over  thy  dark  shoulder  glow 
Thy  silver  sister-world,  and  rise 
To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 

That  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  lightly  borne. 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light. 

And  move  me  to  my  marriage-moni. 
And  round  again  to  happy  night 


BaxAK,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea  t 
And  I  would  that  my  tongne  could  utter 

Tbe  thoDgbta  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  tbe  flaherman's  boy, 
That  be  ehonts  with  his  sister  at  p1a>  . 

O  well  for  the  aailor  lad. 
That  be  aings  in  his  boat  on  tbe  bar  ' 


*  Bmk,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gray  ttonea,  0  Saa !" 


THE  BEGOAB  MAID.— TIIE  POETS  BONO. 


81 


And  Um  aUtely  ihipa  gu  od 
To  ttielr  havan  nnder  the  hill ; 

Bat  O  ibr  the  toaeh  of  a  ranUh'd  hand, 
And  tb*  soand  of  a  voice  that  Is  •till ! 

Broak,  break,  break. 

At  the  (bot  of  thy  craga,  O  Sea  I 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  if  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


THE  BEGOAK  MAID. 

Has  anna  acroes  her  breast  she  laid ; 

She  was  more  Mr  than  words  can  say: 
Barefooted  came  the  beggar  maid 

Before  the  king  Cophetoa. 
In  robe  and  crown  the  king;  stcpt  down, 

To  meet  and  greet  her  ou  her  way ; 
"  It  is  no  wonder,"  said  the  lords, 

"She  is  more  beantUUl  than  day." 

As  Rhlnes  the  moon  in  clouded  skies, 
She  in  her  poor  nttire  was  seen: 

One  praised  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes. 
One  her  dark  hair  and  loTesome  mien. 


So  sweet  a  Sftoa,  saeh  angel  grace. 
In  all  that  land  had  narer  been: 

Cophetoa  aware  a  royal  oath : 
'*  This  beggar  maid  ahall  be  my  qneen ! 


THE  POETS  SONG. 

Tn  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose. 

He  pass'd  by  the  town  and  out  of  the  street, 
A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the  sun. 

And  waTea  of  shadow  went  over  the  wheat. 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place. 

And  chanted  a  melody  load  and  sweet. 
That  made  the  wild-swan  panse  in  her  clond, 

And  the  lark  drop  down  at  bis  feet 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hnnted  the  hee. 

The  snake  slipt  under  a  spray. 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on  his  beak, 

And  sured,  with  his  foot  on  the  prey. 
And  the  nightingale  thought,  "I  have  sang  many 
songs, 

Bat  never  a  one  so  gay. 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  b4 

When  the  years  have  died  away." 


'  la  rob*  and  crown  tb*  Uoc  (tApt  down. 
To  amt  ■nd  pmt  bar  on  h«r  way." 

6 


82 


THE  PRINCESS :  A  MEDLEY. 


THE    PRINCESS: 

A  MEDLEY. 


HENRY  LU8HINGT0N 

THIS    TOLUMB    IB    INSCRIBED    BY     UI8    FRIEXD 

A.  TENNYSON. 


PROLOGUE. 

8iB  Waltkb  Vivian  all  a  sammer'a  day 
Gave  hia  broad  lawns  until  the  eet  of  sua 
Up  to  the  people :  thither  flock'd  at  noon 
Hie  teuanU),  wife  and  child,  and  thither  half 
The  neighboring  borough  with  their  luutitute 
Of  which  he  was  the  patron.    I  waa  there 
Prom  college,  visiting  the  son,— the  ion 
A  Walter  too,— with  others  of  our  set, 
Five  others:  we  were  seven  at  Vivian-place. 

And  me  that  morning  Walter  show'd  the  house, 
Oreek,  set  with  busts:  from  vases  in  the  hall 
Flowers  of  all  heavens,  and  lovelier  than  their  names, 
Ore<r  side  by  side ;  and  on  the  pavement  lay 
Carved  stones  of  the  Abbey-ruin  in  the  park. 
Huge  Ammonites,  and  the  first  bones  of  Time ; 
And  on  the  tables  every  clime  and  age 
Jumbled  together:  celu  and  calnmets, 
Claymore  and  snow-shoe,  toys  In  lava,  fans 
Of  sandal,  amber,  ancient  roearies, 
Laborious  orient  Ivory  sphere  in  sphere. 
The  cursed  Malayan  crease,  and  battle-clnbe 
From  the  Isles  of  palm :  and  higher  on  the  walls, 
Betwixt  the  moiiHtrous  horns  of  elk  and  deer. 
His  own  forefathers'  arms  and  armor  hung. 

And  "this," he  §ald,  "was  Hugh's  at  Agincourt; 
And  that  was  old  Sir  Ralph's  at  Ascalon: 
A  good  knight  he  !  we  keep  a  chronicle 
With  all  about  him,"— which  he  brought,  and  I 
Dived  in  a  hoard  of  Ules  that  dealt  with  knlghU 
Half-legend,  half-hlstorlc,  counU  and  kings 
Who  laid  about  them  at  their  wills  and  died ; 
.\nd  mixt  with  these,  a  lady,  one  that  arm'd 
Her  own  fair  head,  and  sallying  thro'  the  gate. 
Had  beat  her  foes  with  slaughter  from  her  walls. 

"  O  miracle  of  women,"  said  the  book, 
"O  noble  heart  who,  being  strait-besieged 
By  this  wild  king  to  force  her  to  his  wish, 
Nor  bent,  nor  broke,  nor  shunn'd  a  soldier's  death. 
But  now  when  all  was  lost  or  seem'd  as  lost— 
Her  stature  more  than  mortal  In  the  burst      * 
Of  sunrise,  her  arm  lifted,  eyes  on  fire — 
Brake  with  a  blast  of  trumpets  from  the  gate, 
And,  falling  on  them  like  a  thunderbolt, 
She  trampled  some  beneath  her  horses'  heels. 
And  some  were  whelm'd  with  missiles  of  the  wall, 
And  some  were  push'd  with  lances  from  the  rock, 
Aud  part  were  drowii'd  within  the  whirling  brook: 
O  miracle  of  noble  womanhood !" 

So  sang  the  gallant  glorious  chronicle ; 
And,  I  all  rapt  in  this,  "  Come  out,"  he  said, 
"  To  the  Abbey :  there  is  Aunt  Elizabeth 


And  sister  Lllla  with  the  rest"    We  went 

(I  kept  the  book  and  had  my  finger  in  it) 

Down  thro'  the  park :  strange  was  the  sight  to  me ; 

Ifor  all  the  sloping  pasture  murmur'd,  sown 

With  happy  faces  and  with  holiday. 

There  moved  the  mnllitude,  a  thousand  beads ; 

The  patient  leaders  of  their  Institute 

Taught  them  with  facts.    One  rear'd  a  font  of  stone 

And  drew  fh>m  butts  of  water  on  the  slope, 

The  ftmntaln  of  the  moment,  playing  now 

A  twlated  snake,  and  now  a  rain  of  pearls, 

Or  «teep-ap  spout  whereon  the  glided  ball 

Danced  like  a  wisp :  and  somewhat  lower  down 

A  man  with  knoba  and  wires  and  viala  fired 

A  cannon :  Echo  answer'd  In  her  sleep 

From  hollow  fields:  and  here  were  teleecopea 

For  azure  riewa :  and  there  a  group  of  girls 

In  circle  waited,  whom  the  electric  shock 

DIslink'd  with  shrieks  and  laughter :  round  the  lake 

A  little  clock-work  steamer  paddling  piled 

And  shook  the  lilies :  percb'd  about  the  knolls 

A  dosen  angry  models  Jetted  steam: 

A  petty  railway  ran :  a  fire-balloon 

Hoae  gem-like  np  before  the  dusky  grores 

And  dropt  a  fairy  parachute  and  past: 

And  there  thro'  twenty  poets  of  telegraph 

They  fiash'd  a  saucy  message  to  and  fro 

Between  the  mimic  stations;  so  that  sport 

Went  hand  in  hand  vrith  Science ;  otherwhere 

Pure  sport :  a  herd  of  boys  with  clamor  bowl'd. 

And  stump'd  the  wicket ;  babies  roll'd  about 

Like  tumbled  fruit  In  grass ;  and  men  and  maids 

Arranged  a  country  dance,  and  flew  thro'  light 

And  shadow,  while  the  twangling  violin 

Struck  up  with  Soldler-laddle,  and  overhead 

The  broad  ambrosial  aisles  of  lofty  lime 

Made  noise  with  bees  and  breeze  from  end  to  end. 

Strange  was  the  sight  and  smacking  of  the  time ; 
And  long  we  gazed,  but  satiated  at  length 
Came  to  the  ruins.    High-arch'd  and  ivy-claspt, 
Of  finest  Gothic  lighter  than  a  fire, 
Thro'  one  wide  chasm  of  time  and  frost  they  gave 
The  park,  the  crowd,  the  house ;  but  all  within 
The  sward  was  trim  as  any  garden  lawn: 
And  here  we  lit  on  Aunt  Elizabeth, 
Aud  Lllia  with  the  rest,  and  lady  friends 
From  neighbor  seats :  and  there  was  Ralph  himself, 
A  broken  statue  propt  against  the  wall, 
As  gay  as  any.    Lilia,  wild  with  sjjort, 
Half  child,  half  woman  as  she  was,  had  wotmd 
A  scarf  of  orange  round  the  stony  helm. 
And  robed  the  shoulders  in  a  rosy  silk, 
That  made  the  old  warrior  from  his  ivied  nook 
Glow  like  a  sunbeam:  near  his  tomb  a  feast 
Shone,  silver-set ;  about  it  lay  the  guests. 
And  there  we  joined  them :  then  the  maiden  Aunt 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


Took  tbli  Mr  day  ft>r  test,  and  ttam  It  preach'd 
An  uulverMi  eoltor*  tor  the  cruwd, 
And  all  thing*  great ;  bnt  we,  nnwurthler,  told 
or  Ciillege :  be  had  dtmb'd  acroaa  the  aptkee, 
And  be  bad  aqaeesed  hlmaeir  betwlxl  the  bare, 
And  be  bad  brcatbed  the  Proctor'i  doga:  and  one 
Dlacoas'd  bis  tutor,  roagb  to  common  men, 
Bat  boneying  at  ibe  wbUper  of  a  lord ; 
And  one  the  Master,  as  a  rogne  In  grain 
Veneer'd  with  aanctimonlous  theory. 

Bnt  wbile  they  talk'd,  above  thoir  beads  I  law 
The  feudal  warrior  lady-clad ;  wblch  brongbt 
My  book  to  mind:  and  opening  tbls  I  read 
or  old  Sir  Ralph  a  page  or  two  that  rang 
With  tilt  and  tonmey ;  then  the  tale  or  her 
That  drove  her  totia  with  slaughter  rh>m  her  walin, 
And  mach  I  praised  her  nobleness,  and  "  Where," 
Aak'd  Walter,  patting  Lilia's  bead  (she  lay 
Beside  him)  "  Uvea  there  sncb  a  womuu  now  1" 

Qnick  answer'd  Lilia,  "There  are  thousaads  now 
Such  wdtnen,  but  convention  beats  them  down: 
It  is  but  bringing  up :  no  more  than  that : 
Ton  men  have  done  it :  bow  I  bate  yon  all ! 
Ah,  were  I  something  great !  I  wiA  I  were 
Some  mighty  poeteaa,  I  would  shame  you  then. 
That  lore  to  keep  na  clUldrcn !    O  I  yrish 
That  I  were  some  great  Princcso,  I  would  build 
Far  off  rirom  men  a' college  like  a  man's. 
And  I  would  teach  them  all  that  men  are  taught : 
We  are  twice  aa  quick !"    And  hero  she  shook  aside 
■me  hand  that  play'd  the  patron  with  her  curls. 

And  one  said  smiling,  "  Pretty  were  the  sight 
ir  our  old  halls  could  change  their  sex,  and  flaunt 
AVilh  pmdcs  ror  proctors,  dowagers  for  deans. 
And  sweet  girl-graduates  in  their  golden  hair. 
I  think  they  should  not  wear  our  rusty  gowns, 
Bnt  move  as  rich  as  Emperor-moths  or  Ralph 
Who  shines  so  in  the  corner ;  yet  I  fear, 
ir  there  were  many  Lilios  in  the  brood. 
However  deep  you  might  embower  the  nest. 
Some  boy  would  spy  it." 

At  tbls  upon  the  sward 
She  tapt  her  tiny  silken-sandal'd  foot : 
"That's  yonr  light  way:  bnt  I  would  make  it  death 
For  any  male  thing  bat  to  peep  at  as." 

Petulant  she  spoke,  and  at  herseir  she  laugh'd ; 
A  rose-bad  set  with  little  wiirul  thorns. 
And  »weet  as  English  air  could  make  her,  she: 
But  Walter  hail'd  a  score  of  names  upon  her. 
And  "petty  Ogress,"  and  "nngratefhl  Puss," 
And  swore  tue  long'd  at  College,  only  long'd. 
All  else  waa  well,  ror  she-society. 
They  boated  and  they  cricketed:  they  talk'd 
At  wine,  in  clubs,  or  art,  or  [mlitics  ; 
They  lost  their  weeks;  they  vext  the  souls  or  deans ; 
They  rode ;  they  betted  ;  made  a  hundred  rriends, 
And  canght  the  blossom  or  the  flying  terms, 
But  mlss'd  the  mignonette  or  Vivian-place, 
The  little  hearth-flower  Lilia.    Thus  he  spoke. 
Part  banter,  part  affection. 

"True,"  she  said, 
"We  doubt  not  that    O  yes,  yon  miss'd  us  much. 
I  '11  stake  my  ruby  ring  npon  It  you  did." 

She  held  It  out ;  and  as  a  parrot  turns 
Up  thro'  gilt  wires  a  crafty  loving  eye, 
And  takes  a  lady's  finger  with  all  care, 
And  bites  It  for  true  heart  and  not  ror  barm, 
So  he  with  Lilia's.    Daintily  she  shrlek'd 
And  wrung  It,    "  Doobt  my  word  again !"  he  said. 
"  Come,  listen  !  here  is  proof  that  you  were  mlss'd : 
We  seven  stay'd  at  Christmas  np  to  read, 
.\nd  there  we  took  one  tutor  aa  to  read: 
The  bard-grain'd  Muses  of  the  cube  and  square 
Were  unt  of  season :  never  man,  I  ttiink, 


So  monlder'd  in  a  atnaeora  aa  be  i 

For  while  our  cloisten  eebo'd  flroaty  feet. 

And  oar  long  walks  were  stript  aa  bare  aa  brooms. 

We  did  but  ulk  you  over,  pledge  yon  all 

In  waaaail :  often,  like  as  many  glrl»— 

Sick  for  the  hollies  and  the  yewa  of  bom*— 

Aa  many  little  trifling  Liliss— play'd 

Charades  and  riddles  as  at  Christmas  here. 

And  vfhat'i  my  thoutjht  and  tehen  and  wAare  and  hett, 

.Vnd  orteu  told  a  tale  (h)m  mouth  to  month 

.\a  hara  at  Christmas." 

She  remember'd  that: 
A  pleaaant  game,  she  thought :  she  liked  it  more 
Than  magic  music,  rorreits,  all  the  rest. 
Uut  these— what  kind  or  tales  did  men  tell  men. 
She  wonder'd,  by  titemselvesf 

A  bair-dLsdain 
I'ercb'd  on  the  pouted  blossom  or  her  lips : 
And  Walter  nodded  at  me ;  "  U»  began, 
The  rest  would  rdlow,  each  in  turn ;  and  so 
We  forged  a  sevenfold  story.    Kind  f  what  kind  ? 
Chimeras,  crotchets,  Cbristoiaa  soleclsma, 
Seven-beaded  monsters  only  made  to  kill 
Time  by  the  Are  in  winter." 

"Kill  him  now, 
The  tyrant !  kill  bim  In  the  stmimer  loo," 
Said  Lilia  ;  "Why  not  now,"  the  maiden  Auut. 
"  Why  not  a  summer's  as  a  winter's  tale  ? 
A  tale  ror  summer  as  beflts  the  time, 
And  something  it  should  be  to  suit  the  place. 
Heroic,  ror  a  hero  lies  beneath, 
Qrave,  solemn !" 

Walter  warp'd  his  mouth  at  tbls 
To  something  so  mock-solemn,  that  I  laugh'd 
And  Lllla  woke  with  sudden-shrilling  mirth 
An  echo  like  a  ghostly  woodpecker, 
Hid  in  the  rains;  till  the  maiden  Annt 
(A  little  sense  or  wrong  had  touch'd  her  fece 
With  color)  turn'd  to  me  with  "  As  you  will ; 
Heroic  ir  you  will,  or  what  you  will, 
Or  be  yourself  your  hero  if  you  will." 

"Take  Lilia,  then,  for  heroine,"  clamor'd  be,  ^ 

"And  make  her  some  great  Princess,  six  feet  high, 
Grand,  epic,  homicidal ;  and  be  yon 
The  Prince  to  win  her !" 

"  Then  follow  me,  the  Prince," 
I  answer'd,  "  each  be  hero  in  his  turn  1 
Seven  and  yet  one,  like  shadows  In  a  dream. — 
Heroic  seems  our  Princess  as  required.— 
But  something  made  to  salt  with  Time  and  place, 
A  Oothic  ruin  and  a  Grecian  house, 
A  talk  of  college  and  of  ladles'  rights, 
A  feudal  knight  in  silken  masquerade. 
And,  yonder,  shrieks  and  strange  experiments 
For  which  the  good  Sir  Ralph  had  burnt  them  all— 
This  were  a  medley !  we  should  have  bim  back 
Who  told  the  '  Winter's  tale '  to  do  It  for  us. 
No  matter :  we  will  say  whatever  comes. 
And  let  the  ladles  sing  us,  ir  they  will, 
From  time  to  time,  some  ballad  or  a  song 
To  give  as  breathing-space." 

So  I  began. 
And  the  rest  rollow'd :  and  the  women  sang 
Between  the  rougher  voices  or  the  men. 
Like  linnets  In  the  pauses  of  the  wind : 
And  here  I  give  the  story  and  the  songs. 


A  PaiNoa  I  was,  blue^yed,  and  ftdr  in  Ctce, 
or  temper  amorous,  as  the  first  of  May, 
With  lengths  of  yellow  ringlet,  like  a  girl. 
For  on  my  cradle  shone  the  Northern  star. 

There  lived  an  ancient  legend  in  our  bouse. 
Some  sorcerer,  whom  a  far-off  grandsire  burnt 
Because  be  cast  no  shadow,  had  foretold. 
Dying,  that  none  of  all  cur  blood  should  know 


84 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


The  shadow  from  the  substance,  and  that  one 

Should  come  to  fight  with  shadows  and  to  fall. 

For  60,  my  mother  said,  the  story  ran. 

And,  truly,  waking  dreams  were,  more  or  less. 

An  old  and  strange  affection  of  the  bouse. 

Myself  too  had  weird  seizures.  Heaven  knows  what: 

On  a  sudden  in  the  midst  of  men  and  day, 

And  while  I  walk'd  and  talk'd  as  heretofore, 

I  seem'd  to  move  among  a  world  of  ghosts. 

And  feel  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 

Our  great  court-Galen  poised  his  gilt-head  cane. 

And  paw'd  his  beard,  and  mutter'd  "catalepsy." 

My  mother  pitying  made  a  thousand  prayers; 

My  mother  was  as  mild  as  any  saint, 

Half-canonized  by  all  that  look'd  on  her, 

So  gracious  was  her  tact  and  tenderness ; 

Bat  my  good  father  thought  a  king  a  king: 

He  cared  not  for  the  affection  of  the  house ; 

He  held  his  sceptre  like  a  pedant's  wand 

To  lash  offence,  and  with  long  arms  and  hands 

Reach'd  out,  and  pick'd  offenders  f^om  the  mass 

For  Judgment. 

Now  it  chanced  that  I  bad  been, 
While  life  was  yet  in  bnd  and  blade,  betrotb'd 
To  one,  a  neighboring  Princess :  she  to  me 
Was  proxy-wedded  with  a  iMMtless  calf 
At  eight  years  old ;  and  still  fl'om  time  to  time 
Came  murmurs  of  lier  beauty  from  the  South, 
And  of  her  brethren,  youths  of  puissance ; 
And  still  I  wore  her  picture  by  my  heart. 
And  one  dark  tress ;  and  all  around  them  both 
Sweet  thoughts  would  swarm  as  bees  abont  their 
queen. 

But  when  the  days  drew  nigh  that  I  shoald  wed, 
My  father  sent  ambassadors  with  ftirs 
And  Jewels,  gifts,  to  fetch  her :  these  brought  back 
A  present,  a  great  labor  of  the  loom ; 
And  therewithal  an  answer  vague  as  wind : 
Besides,  they  saw  the  king ;  he  took  the  gifts ; 
He  said  there  was  a  compact;  that  was  tme: 
But  then  she  had  a  will ;  was  be  to  blame  T 
And  maiden  fancies;  loved  to  live  alone 
Among  her  women ;  certain,  would  not  wed. 

That  rooming  In  the  presence-room  I  stood 
With  Cyril  and  with  Plorlan,  my  two  A-iends: 
The  first,  a  gentleman  of  broken  means 
(His  father's  fault)  but  given  to  starts  and  bursts 
Of  revel ;  and  the  last,  my  other  heart, 
And  almost  my  half-self,  for  still  we  moved 
Together,  twinn'd  as  horse's  ear  and  eye. 

Now,  while  they  spake,  I  saw  my  fattaei's  toce 
Grow  long  and  troubled  like  a  rising  moon, 
Inflamed  with  wrath :  he  started  on  his  feet. 
Tore  the  king's  letter,  snow'd  it  down,  and  rent 
The  wonder  of  the  loom  thro'  warp  and  woof 
From  skirt  to  skirt;  and  at  the  last  he  sware 
That  he  would  send  a  hundred  thousand  men, 
And  bring  her  in  a  whirlwind :  then  he  chew'd 
The  thrice-tum'd  cud  of  wrath,  and  cook'd  his  spleen. 
Communing  with  his  captains  of  the  war. 

At  last  I  spoke.    "My  father,  let  me  ga 
It  cannot  be  but  some  gross  error  lies 
In  this  report,  this  answer  of  a  king, 
Whom  all  men  rate  as  kind  and  hospitable: 
Or,  maybe,  I  myself,  my  bride  once  seen, 
Whate'er  my  grief  to  find  her  less  than  fame. 
May  me  the  bargain  made."    And  Florian  said: 
"I  have  a  sister  at  the  foreign  court. 
Who  moves  about  the  Princess ;  she,  yon  know, 
Who  wedded  with  a  nobleman  from  thence: 
He,  dying  lately,  left  her,  as  I  bear. 
The  lady  of  three  castles  In  that  land : 
Thro'  her  this  matter  might  be  sifted  clean." 
And  Cyril  whisper'd:  *'  Take  me  vrith  you  too." 


Then  laughing  "  what,  if  these  weird  seizures  come 
Upon  yon  in  those  lands,  and  no  one  near 
To  point  you  out  the  shadow  from  the  truth  1 
Take  me :  I'll  serve  you  better  in  a  strait ; 
I  grate  on  rusty  hinges  here:"  but  "No!" 
Roar'd  the  rough  king,  "you  shall  not;  we  ourself 
Will  crush  her  pretty  maiden  fancies  dead 
In  iron  gauntlets:  break  the  council  up." 

But  when  the  council  broke,  I  rose  and  past 
Thro'  the  wild  woods  that  hung  about  the  town , 
Found  a  still  place,  and  pluck'd  her  likeness  out; 
Laid  it  on  flowers,  and  watch'd  it  lying  bathed 
In  the  green  gleam  of  dewy-tassell'd  trees : 
What  were  those  fancies  T  wherefore  break  her  troth  T 
Proud  look'd  the  lips :  bat  while  I  meditated 
A  wind  arose  and  rush'd  upon  the  South, 
And  shook  the  songs,  the  whispers,  and  the  shrieks 
Of  the  wild  woods  together ;  and  a  Voice 
Went  with  it,  "  Follow,  follow,  thou  shall  win." 

Then,  ere  the  silver  sickle  of  that  month 
Became  her  golden  shield,  I  stole  from  court 
With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  nnjierceived. 
Cat-footed  thro'  the  town  and  half  in  dread 
To  hear  my  (isther'a  clamor  at  our  backs 
With  Ho !  from  some  bay-window  shake  the  night ; 
But  all  was  quiet:  from  the  bastion'd  walls 
Like  threaded  spiders,  one  by  one,  we  dropt, 
And  flying  reach'd  the  frontier:  then  we  crest 
To  a  livelier  land;  and  so  by  tilth  and  grange, 
And  vines,  and  blowing  bosks  of  wilderness, 
We  gain'd  the  mother-city  thick  with  towers, 
And  in  the  imperial  palace  found  the  king. 

His  name  was  Gama ;  crack'd  and  small  his  voice, 
But  bland  the  smile  that  like  a  wrinkling  wind 
On  glassy  water  drove  his  cheek  in  lines; 
A  little  dry  old  man,  withont  a  star, 
Not  like  a  king:  three  dajrs  he  feasted  ns, 
And  on  the  fourth  I  spake  of  why  we  came. 
And  my  betrotb'd.    "  You  do  us,  Prince,"  be  said, 
Airing  a  snowy  hand  and  signet  gem, 
"All  honor.    We  remember  love  ourselves 
In  onr  sweet  youth :  ttiere  did  a  compact  pass 
Long  sammers  back,  a  kind  of  ceremony— 
I  tbink  the  year  in  which  our  olives  fall'd. 
I  would  you  had  her.  Prince,  with  all  my  heart. 
With  my  full  heart:  but  there  were  widows  here. 
Two  widows.  Lady  Psyche,  Lady  Blanche ; 
They  fed  her  theories,  in  and  out  of  place 
Maintaining  that  with  equal  husbandry 
The  woman  were  an  equal  to  the  man. 
They  harp'd  on  this;  with  this  our  banquets  rang; 
Our  dances  broke  and  buzz'd  in  knots  of  talk ; 
Nothing  but  this ;  my  very  ears  were  hot 
To  hear  them :  knowledge,  so  my  daughter  held, 
Was  all  in  all ;  they  had  but  been,  she  thought. 
As  children  ;  they  must  lose  the  child,  assume 
The  woman:  then,  Sir,  awful  odes  she  wrote, 
Too  awful,  sure,  for  what  they  treated  of, 
But  all  she  is  and  does  is  awfhl;  odes 
About  this  losing  of  the  child ;  and  rhymes 
And  dismal  l>'ric8,  prophesying  change 
Beyond  all  reason :  these  the  women  sang ; 
And  they  that  know  such  things — I  sought  but  peace ; 
No  critic  I— would  call  them  masterpieces ; 
They  master'd  me.    At  last  she  begg'd  a  boon 
A  certain  summer-palace  which  I  have 
Hard  by  your  father's  frontier:  I  said  no, 
Tet  being  an  easy  man,  gave  it ;  and  there. 
All  wild  to  fonnd  an  University 
For  maidens,  on  the  spur  she  fled ;  and  more 
We  know  not, — only  this :  they  see  no  men, 
Not  ev'n  her  brother  Arac,  nor  the  twins 
Her  brethren,  tho'  they  love  her,  look  upon  her 
As  on  a  kind  of  paragon ;  and  I 
(Pardon  me  saying  it)  were  much  loath  to  breed 


Tiy 


PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


85 


Dbput«  betwixt  mytit  and  mlua:  bat  tliic* 
(And  I  ooalkM  with  right)  yuu  thluk  me  boaud 
Id  eome  lorti  I  can  give  yon  lettera  to  her; 
And,  7«t,  to  ipMUt  the  tmth,  I  rate  yoor  chance 
Almoet  at  naked  nothing." 

Thoa  the  king; 
And  I,  the'  nettled  that  he  aeem'd  to  alur 
With  intrruloas  ease  and  oily  coorteatea 
Our  romiitl  compact,  yet,  not  leaa  (all  firets 
Bui  rbAilii»;  me  on  Are  to  And  my  bride) 
Went  furih  again  with  both  my  (rienda.    We  rode 
Many  a  long  league  back  to  the  North.    At  laat 
From  hllla,  that  look'd  acroea  a  land  of  hope. 
We  dropt  with  evening  on  a  matic  town 
Set  In  a  gleaming  river'a  creacent-curve, 
Cloae  at  the  boundary  of  the  llbortiea : 
There  entcr'd  an  old  hostel,  CAll'd  mine  host 
To  council,  plied  him  with  hlii  richeat  wiuea, 
And  show'd  the  late-writ  letters  of  the  king. 

He  with  a  long  low  aibllation,  stared 
Aa  blank  as  death  in  marble :  then  exclainid 
Averring  it  waa  clear  againat  all  rulea 
For  any  man  to  go:  bat  aa  his  brain 
Began  to  mellow,  "If  the  king,"  he  said, 
"  Had  given  us  letters,  waa  he  bound  to  speak  ? 
The  King  would  bear  htm  out :"  and  at  the  last— 
The  summer  of  the  vine  in  all  hia  veins— 
"  Mo  duabt  that  we  might  make  it  worth  hia  while. 
She  once  had  past  that  way;  he  heard  her  speak: 
She  scared  him ;  life !  he  never  saw  the  like ; 
She  look'd  as  grand  as  doomsday  and  as  grave: 
And  he,  he  reverenced  hia  liege-lady  there ; 
Be  always  nude  a  point  to  post  with  mares ; 
His  daughter  and  his  housemaid  were  the  boys: 
The  land  he  understood  for  miles  about 
Waa  tlU'd  by  women ;  all  the  swine  were  sovrs. 
And  all  the  dogs—" 

But  while  be  Jested  thus 
A  thought  flash'd  thro'  me  which  I  cloth'd  in  act, 
Remembering  how  we  three  presented  Maid 
Or  X>Tnph,  or  Goddess,  at  high  tide  of  feast. 
In  masque  or  pageant  at  my  father's  court. 
We  sent  mine  host  to  purchase  female  gear ; 
He  brought  it,  and  himself,  a  sight  to  shake 
The  midriff  of  despair  with  laughter,  holp 
To  lace  us  up,  till  each,  in  maiden  plumes 
We  rustled:  him  we  gave  a  costly  bribe 
To  guerdon  silence,  mounted  our  good  steeds. 
And  boldly  ventured  on  the  liberties. 

We  foUow'd  up  the  river  as  we  rode. 
And  rode  till  midnight  when  the  college  lights 
Began  to  glitter  flrefly-like  in  copse 
And  linden  alley:  then  we  past  an  arch, 
Whereon  a  woman-eutue  rose  with  wings 
From  four  wing'd  horses  dark  agalnat  the  stars ; 
And  some  inscription  ran  along  the  fh>nt. 
But  deep  in  shadow:  further  on  we  gain'd 
A  little  Btreet  half  garden  and  half  house ; 
But  scarce  could  hear  each  other  speak  for  noise 
Of  clociu  and  chimes,  like  silver  hammers  falling 
On  silver  anvils,  and  the  splash  and  stir 
Of  fountains  spouted  up  and  showering  down 
In  meshes  of  the  Jasmine  and  the  roee : 
And  all  about  us  peal'd  the  nightingale. 
Rapt  in  her  song,  and  careless  of  the  snare. 

There  stood  a  bust  of  Pallas  for  a  dgn. 
By  two   sphere  lamps   blazon'd  like  Heaven  and 

Earth 
With  constellation  and  with  continent. 
Above  an  entry :  riding  in,  we  call'd ; 
A  pinmp-arm'd  Ostleress  and  a  stable  wench 
Came  running  at  the  call,  and  help'd  us  down. 
Then  stept  a  buxom  hostess  forth,  and  sail'd. 
Full  blown,  before  us  into  rooms  which  gave 
Upon  a  pillar'd  porch,  the  baaea  loat 


In  laurel :  her  we  aak'd  of  that  and  this, 

And  who  were  tutura.    "  Lady  Blanche,**  aha  aald, 

"  And  Lady  rsychc."    "  Which  waa  prettiest, 

Beat-natorad  1"    "  Lady  Payeha."    **  Han  arc  wa,** 

One  voice,  wa  cried ;  and  I  aat  down  and  wrote, 

In  anch  a  hand  aa  when  a  flald  of  oora 

Bowa  all  Its  eara  beftx«  the  roaring  Bast: 

"Tbree  ladiea  of  the  Northern  emphre  pray 
Your  HIghneaa  wonld  enroll  them  with  yonr  own, 
As  Lady  Psyche's  papUs." 

This  laeal'd: 
The  seal  was  Cupid  bent  above  a  scroll, 
And  o'er  his  head  Uranian  Venus  hung, 
.\nd  raised  the  blinding  bandage  ftom  his  eyea: 
I  gave  the  letter  to  be  sent  with  dawn: 
And  then  to  bed,  where  half  in  dose  I  aeem'd 
To  float  about  a  glimmering  night,  and  watch 
A  ftill  aea  glased  with  muffled  moonlight,  swell 
On  some  dark  ahore  Just  seeu  that  it  was  rich. 


As  thro'  the  land  at  ere  we  went, 

And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears, 
We  fell  out,  m%  wife  and  I, 
O  we  fell  out  I  know  not  why, 

And  klaa'd  again  with  teara. 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  flie  child 

We  lost  In  other  years, 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
O  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

IL 

At  break  of  day  the  College  Portress  came : 

She  brought  us  Academic  silks,  in  hue 

The  lilac,  with  a  silken  hood  to  each. 

And  zoned  with  gold ;  and  now  when  these  were  on. 

And  we  as  rich  as  moths  from  dusk  cocoons. 

She,  curtseying  her  obeisance,  let  us  know 

The  Princess  Ida  waited:  ont  we  paced, 

I  first,  and  following  thro'  the  porch  that  sang 

All  round  with  laurel,  issued  in  a  court 

Compact  of  lucid  marbles,  boss'd  with  lengths 

Of  classic  frieze,  with  ample  awnings  gay 

Betwixt  the  pillars,  and  with  great  ams  of  flowers. 

The  Muses  and  the  Oracea,  group'd  in  threex, 

Enring'd  a  billowing  fountain  in  the  midKt; 

And  here  and  there  on  lattice  edges  lay 

Or  book  or  lute;  but  hastily  we  past. 

And  up  a  flight  of  stairs  into  the  hall. 

There  at  a  board  by  tome  and  paper  sat. 
With  two  tame  leopards  conch'd  beside  her  throne. 
All  beauty  compass'd  in  a  female  form. 
The  Princess;  liker  to  the  inhabitant 
Of  some  clear  planet  close  upon  the  Sun, 
Than  our  man's  earth ;  such  eyes  were  in  her  head, 
And  so  much  grace  and  power,  breathing  down 
From  over  her  arch'd  brows,  with  every  turn 
Lived  thro'  her  to  the  tips  of  her  long  bands. 
And  to  her  feet.    She  roee  her  height,  and  said : 

"  We  give  yon  welcome :  not  without  redound 
Of  use  and  glory  to  yourselves  ye  come. 
The  first-fhiits  of  the  stranger :  aflertime, 
And  that  full  voice  which  circles  round  Uie  grave. 
Will  rank  you  nobly,  mingled  up  with  me. 
What  I  are  the  ladles  of  your  land  so  tall  t" 
"We  of  the  court,"  said  CyrlL    "From  the  court," 
She  answer'd,  "then  ye  know  the  Prince f  and  he: 
"The  climax  of  his  age !  as  tho'  there  were 
One  roee  in  all  the  world,  your  Highness  that. 
He  worships  your  IdeaL"    She  replied: 
"We  scarcely  thought  in  our  own  hall  to  hear 
This  barren  verbiage,  current  amongf  men. 
Like  coin,  the  tinael  clink  of  compliment 
Yonr  flight  trom  out  your  bookless  wilds  would  seem 
Aa  arguing  love  of  knolrledge  and  of  power ; 


86 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLgY. 


Your  language  proves  you  still  the  child.    Indeed, 
We  dream  not  of  him :  when  we  set  our  hand 
To  this  great  work,  we  purposed  with  onrself 
Never  to  wed.    You  likewise  wili  do  well, 
Ladies,  in  entering  here,  to  cast  and  fling 
The  tricks,  which  make  us  toys  of  men,  that  so, 
Some  future  time,  if  so  indeed  you  will, 
Yon  may  with  those  self-styled  our  lords  ally 
Yoor  fortunes,  jDStlier  balanced,  scale  with  scale." 

At  those  high  words,  we,  conscious  of  ourselves. 
Perused  the  matting;  then  an  officer 
Rose  up,  and  read  the  statutes,  such  as  these : 
Not  for  three  years  to  correspond  with  home; 
Not  for  three  years  to  cross  the  liberties: 
Not  for  three  years  to  speak  with  any  men; 
And  many  more,  which  hastily  subscribed, 
We  enter'd  on  the  boards :  and  "  Now,"  she  cried, 
"Ye  afc  green  wood,  see  ye  warp  not     Look,  our 

hall! 
Our  statues ! — not  of  those  that  men  desire. 
Sleek  Odalisques,  or  oracles  of  mode. 
Nor  stunted  squaws  of  West  or  East;  but  she 
That  taught  the  Sabine  how.to  rule,  and  she 
The  fonndress  of  the  Babylonian  wall, 
The  Carian  Artemisia  strong  In  war, 
The  Rhodope,  that  built  the  pyramid, 
Clella,  Cornelia,  with  the  Palmyreue 
That  fought  Aurelian,  and  the  Roman  brows 
Of  Agrlpplna.    Dwell  with  these  and  lose 
Convention,  since  to  look  on  noble  forms 
Makes  noble  thro'  the  sensuous  organism 
That  which  is  higher.    O  lift  your  natures  up: 
Embrace  our  alms:  work  out  your  freedom.     Girls, 
Knowledge  Is  now  no  more  a  fountain  seal'd: 
Drink  deep,  until  the  habit«  of  the  slave, 
The  sins  of  emptiness,  gossip  and  spite 
And  slander,  die.    Better  not  be  at  all 
Than  not  be  noble.    Leave  us:  you  may  go: 
To-day  the  Lady  Psyche  will  harangue 
The  fresh  arrivals  of  the  week  before; 
For  they  press  in  from  all  the  provinces, 
And  fill  the  hive." 

She  spoke,  and  bowing  wared 
Dismissal:  back  again  we  crost  the  court 
To  Lady  Psyche's:  as  we  enter'd  In, 
There  sat  along  the  forms,  like  morning  doves 
That  sun  their  milky  bosoms  on  the  thatch, 
A  patient  range  of  pupils ;  she  herself 
Erect  behind  a  deslc  of  satin-wood, 
A  quick  brunette,  well-moulded,  falcon-eyed. 
And  on  the  hither  side,  or  so  she  look'd, 
Of  twenty  summers.    At  her  left,  a  child. 
In  shining  draperies,  headed  like  a  star, 
Her  maiden  babe,  a  double  April  old, 
Aglaia  slept.    We  sat :  the  Lady  glanced  : 
Then  Florian,  but  no  livelier  than  the  dame 
That  whisper'd  "Asses'  ears"  among  the  sedge, 
"My  sister."    "Comely  too  by  all  that's  fair," 
Said  Cyril.    "  O  hush,  bush  !"  and  she  began. 

"  This  world  was  once  a  fluid  haze  of  light, 
Till  toward  the  centre  set  the  starry  tides, 
And  eddied  into  suns,  that  wheeling  cast 
The  planets:  then  the  monster,  then  the  man: 
Tattoo'd  or  woaded,  winter-clad  In  skins. 
Raw  fi-om  the  prime,  and  crushing  down  his  mate ; 
As  yet  we  And  In  barbarous  isles,  and  here 
Among  the  lowest." 

Thereupon  she  took 
A  bird's-eye  view  of  all  the  ungracious  past; 
Glanced  at  the  legendary  Amazon 
As  emblematic  of  a  nobler  age ; 
Appraised  the  Lycian  custom,  spoke  of  those 
That  lay  at  wiAe  with  Lar  and  Lncumo; 
Ran  down  the  Persian,  Grecian,  Roman  lines 
Of  empire,  and  the  woman's  state  in  each. 
How  far  from  just ;  till,  wa*ning  with  her  theme, 


She  fulmined  out  her  scorn  of  laws  Salique 

And  little-footed  China,  touch'd  on  Mahomet 

With  much  contempt,  and  came  to  chivalry : 

When  some  respect,  however  slight,  was  paid 

To  woman,  superstition  all  awry: 

However  then  commenced  the  dawn:  a  beam 

Had  slanted  forward,  falling  in  a  land 

Of  promise  ;  fruit  would  follow.    Deep,  indeed. 

Their  debt  of  thanks  to  her  who  first  had  dared 

To  leap  the  rotten  pales  of  prejudice, 

Disyoke  their  necks  from  custom,  and  assert 

None  lordlier  than  themselves  but  that  which  made 

Woman  and  man.    She  had  founded ;  they  must  build. 

Here  might  they  learn  whatever  men  were  taught: 

Let  them  not  fear :  some  said  their  heads  were  less : 

Some  men's  were  small ;  not  they  the  least  of  men  ; 

For  often  fineness  compensated  size: 

Besides  the  brain  was  like  the  hand,  and  grew 

With  using;  thence  the  man's,  if  more,  was  more ; 

He  took  advantage  of  his  strength  to  be 

First  in  the  field :  some  ages  bad  been  lost ; 

But  woman  ripen'd  earlier,  and  her  life 

Was  Idhger ;  and  albeit  their  glorious  names 

Were  fewer,  scattered  stars,  yet  since  in  truth 

The  highest  is  the  measure  of  the  man. 

And  not  the  Kaffir,  Hottentot,  Malay, 

Nor  those  horn-handed  breakers  of  the  glebe,* 

Bat  Homer,  Plato,  Vemlam;  even  so 

With  woman :  and  in  arts  of  government 

Elizabeth  and  others ;  arts  of  war 

The  peasant  Joan  and  others;  arts  of  grace 

Sappho  and  others  vied  with  any  man : 

And,  last  not  least,  she  who  had  left  her  place. 

And  bow'd  her  state  to  them,  that  they  might  grow 

To  nse  and  power  on  this  Oasis,  lapt 

In  the  arms  of  leisure,  sacred  trom  the  blight 

Of  ancient  Influence  and  scorn." 

At  last 
She  rose  upon  a  wind  of  prophecy 
Dilating  on  the  future;  "everywhere 
Two  heads  in  council,  two  beside  the  hearth. 
Two  in  the  tangled  business  of  the  world, 
Two  in  the  liberal  offices  of  life. 
Two  plummets  dropt  for  one  to  sound  the  abyss 
Of  science,  and  the  secrets  of  the  mind : 
Musician,  painter,  sculptor,  critic,  more : 
And  everywhere  the  broad  and  bonnteons  Earth 
Sboald  bear  a  double  growth  of  those  rare  soulc, 
Poets,  whose  thoughts  enrich  the  blood  of  the  world." 

She  ended  here,  and  beckon'd  us:  the  rest 
Parted ;  and,  glowing  full-faced  welcome,  she 
Began  to  address  us,  and  was  moving  on 
In  gratulation,  till  as  when  a  boat 
Tacks,  and  the  slacken'd  sail  flaps,  all  her  voice 
Faltering  and  fluttering  In  her  throat,  she  cried, 
"My  brother  !"    "  Well,  my  sister."    "O,"  she  said, 
"What  do  you  here?  and  in  this  dress T  and  these? 
Why  who  are  these?  a  wolf  within  the  fold! 
A  pack  of  wolves  1  the  Lord  be  gracious  to  me  I 
A  plot,  a  plot,  a  plot  to  ruin  all  1" 
"No  plot,  no  plot,"  he  answer'd.    "Wretched  boy. 
How  saw  you  not  the  inscription  on  the  gate. 
Let  no  man  kntee  in  on  pain  of  death?" 
"And  If  I  had,"  he  answer'd,  "who  could  think 
The  softer  Adams  of  your  Academe, 
O  sister.  Sirens  tho'  they  be,  were  such 
As  chanted  on  the  blanching  bones  of  men  ?" 
"  But  you  will  find  it  otherwise,"  she  said. 
"Yon  jest:  ill  jesting  with  edge-tools!  my  vow 
Binds  me  to  speak,  and  O  that  iron  will. 
That  axelike  edge  nnturnable,  our  Head, 
The  Princess."    "  Well  then.  Psyche,  take  my  life. 
And  nail  me  like  a  weasel  on  a  grange 
For  warning:  bury  me  beside  the  gate. 
And  cut  this  epitaph  above  my  bones ; 
Here  lif*  a  brother  by  a  sister  slain, 
All  for  the  eommon  good  of  %B<ymar\kind." 


THE  PBINCES8:  A  M£DLEY. 


87 


"  Let  ma  die  too,*  nM  Cyril,  "  iMTing  mm 
And  be«rd  the  I^Aj  Pwycbe." 

I  itnick  in ! 
"  Albeit  eo  muk'd,  Madam,  I  love  the  truth ; 
Receive  It :  and  In  mo  behold  the  Prince 
Your  countryman,  affianced  years  ago 
To  the  Lady  Ida :  bere^  Ibr  here  abe  waa, 
And  tbua  (what  other  way  waa  leflf)  I  cane." 
*■()  Sir,  O  Prince,  I  have  no  country;  none; 
If  any,  this;  but  none.    Whate'er  I  waa 
Disrooted,  what  I  am  la  grafted  here. 
Affianced,  Sirf  love-whlspers  may  not  breathe 
Within  this  vesUl  limit,  and  how  should  I, 
Who  am  not  mine,  say,  live :  the  thunderbolt 
Hanga  silent ;  but  prepare :  I  speak ;  it  fklls." 
"Yet  pause,"  I  said:  "for  that  inscription  there, 
I  think  no  more  of  deadly  lurka  therein. 
Than  in  a  clapper  clapping  in  a  garth, 
To  scare  the  fowl  ttvm  IVuit :  If  more  there  be. 
If  more  and  acted  on,  what  follows  f  war ; 
Your  own  work  roarr'd:  for  this  your  Academe, 
Whichever  side  be  Victor,  In  the  halloo 
Will  topple  to  the  trumpet  down,  and  pass 
With  all  fair  theories  only  made  to  gild 
A  8tormleH8  f<ummcr."    "  I^t  the  Princess  Judge 
Of  that,"  she  said:  "farewell,  Sir— and  to  yon. 
I  shudder  at  the  sequel,  but  I  ga" 

"Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,"  I  rejoln'd, 
"The  tlflh  In  line  from  that  old  Florian,  ♦ 

Yet  hangs  his  portrait  in  my  father's  hall 
(The  gaunt  old  Baron  with  his  beetle  brow 
Sun-shaded  In  the  heat  of  dusty  lights) 
As  he  bestrode  my  Qrandslre,  when  he  fell. 
And  all  else  fled :  we  point  to  it,  and  we  say, 
The  loyal  warmth  of  Florian  is  not  cold. 
But  branches  current  yet  In  kindred  veins." 
"Are  you  that  Psyche,"  Florian  added,  "she 
With  whom  I  sang  about  the  mominf^  hilUi, 
Flung  ball,  flew  kite,  and  raced  the  purple  fly, 
And  snared  the  squirrel  of  the  glen  ?  are  you 
That  Psyche,  wont  to  bind  my  throbbing  brow. 
To  smooth  my  pillow,  mix  the  foaming  draught 
Of  fever,  tell  me  pleasant  tales,  and  read 
My  sickness  down  to  happy  dreams?  are  yon 
That  brother-sister  Psyche,  both  In  one  ? 
You  were  that  Psyche,  but  what  are  you  now  ?" 
"You  are  that  Psyche,"  Cyril  said,  "for  whom 
I  would  be  that  forever  which  I  seem. 
Woman,  If  I  might  sit  beside  your  feet. 
And  glean  your  scatter'd  sapience." 

Then  once  more, 
"  Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,"  I  began, 
"That  on  her  bridal  mom  before  she  past 
From  all  her  old  companions,  when  the  king 
Klss'd  her  pale  cheek,  declared  that  ancient  ties 
Would  still  be  dear  beyond  the  southern  bills ; 
That  were  there  any  of  our  people  there 
In  want  or  peril,  there  was  one  to  hear 
And  help  them:  look  I  for  such  are  these  and  L" 
"  Are  you  that  Psyche,"  Florian  ask'd,  "  to  whom. 
In  gentler  days,  your  arrow-wounded  fawn 
Came  flying  while  yon  sat  beside  the  well  ? 
The  creature  laid  his  muzzle  on  your  lap, 
And  sobb'd,  and  you  sobb'd  with  It,  and  the  blood 
Was  sprinkled  on  your  kirtle,  and  you  wept 
That  was  fawn's  blood,  not  brother's,  yet  you  wept 
O  by  the  bright  head  of  my  little  niece. 
You  were  that  Psyche,  and  what  are  you  nowT" 
"You  are  that  Psyche,"  Cyril  said  again, 
"The  mother  of  the  sweetest  little  maid. 
That  ever  crow'd  for  kisses." 

"Out  upon  It  I" 
She  answer'd,  "  peace !  and  why  should  I  not  play 
The  Spartan  Mother  with  emotion,  be 
The  Lucius  Junius  Brutus  of  my  kind  1 
Him  jrou  call  great:  he  for  the  common  weal. 
The  fading  politics  of  mortal  Rome, 


As  I  might  alay  thia  child.  If  good  need  were, 

Slew  both  his  sons :  and  I,  aball  I,  on  whom 

The  aecular  emancipation  turns 

Of  half  thIa  world,  be  awerred  tttm  right  to  aava 

A  prince,  a  brother?  a  tittle  will  I  yield. 

Best  so,  perchance,  for  us,  and  well  for  you. 

0  hard,  when  lore  and  duty  clash  I    I  fear 

My  conscience  will  not  count  me  fleckleaa ,  y«i— 

Hear  my  eoaditlona :  promise  (otherwise 

You  pertoh)  as  you  cane  to  allp  away, 

To^lay,  to-morrow,  soon :  It  ahall  be  aaid, 

Theae  women  are  too  barbarous,  would  not  learn : 

They  fled,  who  might  have  ahanrnd  us :  promise,  alL" 

What  coald  we  else,  we  promised  each :  and  she, 
Like  some  wild  creature  newly  caged,  commenced 
A  to-and-(h>,  so  pacing  till  she  pwaed 
By  Florian;  holding  out  her  lily  arms 
Took  both  his  bands,  and  smiling  faintly  aald : 
"I  knew  you  at  the  flrst:  tho'  yon  have  grown 
You  scarce  have  alter'd:  I  am  sad  and  glad 
To  see  you,  Florian.    /  give  thee  to  death. 
My  brother  I  It  was  duty  spoke,  not  L 
My  needftal  seeming  harshness,  pardon  it 
Our  mother,  Is  she  well?" 

With  that  she  klss'd 
His  forehead,  then,  a  moment  after,  clung 
About  him,  and  betwixt  them  bloseom'd  up 
From  out  a  common  vein  of  memory 
Sweet  household  talk,  and  phrases  of  the  hearth. 
And  tu  allusion,  till  the  gracious  dews 
Began  to  glisten  and  to  fall :  and  while 
They  stood,  so  rapt,  we  gazing,  came  a  voice, 
"I  brought  a  message  here  A-om  Lady  Blanche." 
Back  started  she,  and  turning  round  we  saw 
The  Lady  Blanche's  daughter  where  she  stood, 
Melissa,  with  her  hand  upon  the  lock. 
A  rosy  blonde,  and  In  a  college  gown. 
That  clad  her  like  an  April  daffodilly 
(Her  mother's  color)  with  her  lips  apart. 
And  all  her  thoughts  as  fair  within  her  eyes. 
As  bottom  agates  seen  to  wave  and  float 
In  crystal  currents  of  clear  morning  seas. 

So  stood  that  same  fair  creature  at  the  door. 
Then  Lady  Psyche,  "  Ah— Melissa— you } 
You  beard  us?"  and  Melissa,  "O  pardon  met 

1  heard,  I  could  not  help  it,  did  not  wish : 
But,  dearest  Lady,  pray  you  fear  me  not. 

Nor  think  I  bear  that  heart  within  my  breast. 
To  give  three  gallant  gentlemen  to  death." 
"I  trust  yon," said  the  other,  "for  we  two 
Were  always  friends,  none  closer,  elm  and  vine : 
But  yet  your  mother's  Jealous  temperament- 
Let  not  your  pnidence,  dearest,  drowse,  or  prove 
The  Danald  of  a  leaky  vase,  for  fear 
This  whole  foundation  mln,  and  I  lose 
My  honor,  these  their  lives."    "Ah,  fear  me  not," 
Replied  Melissa ;  "  no— I  would  not  tell. 
No,  not  for  all  Aspasla's  cleverness. 
No,  not  to  answer.  Madam,  all  those  bard  things 
That  Sheba  came  to  ask  of  Solomon." 
"  Be  It  so,"  the  other,  "  that  we  still  may  lead 
The  new  light  up,  and  culminate  In  peace. 
For  Solomon  may  come  to  Sheba  yet" 
Said  Cyril,  "  Madam,  be  the  wisest  man 
Feasted  the  woman  wisest  then,  in  halls 
Of  Lebanonlan  cedar :  nor  should  you 
(Tho'  Madam  you  should  answer,  im  would  ask) 

•Less  welcome  And  among  us,  if  you  came 
Among  us,  debtors  for  our  lives  to  you. 
Myself  for  something  more."    He  said  not  what. 
But  "Thanks,"  she  answer'd,  "go:  we  have  been 

too  long 
Together:  keep  your  hoods  about  the  (hoe; 
They  do  so  that  affect  abstraction  here. 
Speak  little ;  mix  not  with  the  rest :  and  hold 

I  Your  promise :  all,  I  trust,  may  yet  be  well." 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


We  turn'd  to  go,  but  Cyril  took  the  child, 
And  held  her  round  the  knees  against  his  waist, 
And  blew  the  swoH'n  cheek  of  a  trumpeter, 
While  Psyche  watch'd  them,  emlliug,  and  the  child 
Push'd  her  flat  hand  against  his  face  and  laugh'd ; 
And  thus  our  conference  closed. 

And  then  we  strolled 
For  half  the  day  thro'  stately  theatres 
Bench'd  crescent-wise.    In  each  we  sat,  we  heard 
The  grave  Professor.    On  the  lecture  slate 
The  circle  rounded  under  female  hands 
With  flawless  demonstration:  foUow'd  then 
A  classic  lecture,  rich  in  sentiment, 
With  scraps  of  thftderous  Epic  lilted  out 
By  violet-hooded  Doctors,  elegies 
And  quoted  odes,  and  jewels  flve-words-long 
That  on  the  stretch'd  forefinger  of  all  Time 
Sparkle  forever :  then  we  dipt  in  all 
That  treats  of  whatsoever  is,  the  state, 
The  total  chronicles  of  man,  the  mind. 
The  morals,  something  of  the  frame,  the  rock. 
The  star,  the  bird,  the  fish,  the  shell,  the  flower, 
Electric,  chemic  laws,  and  all  the  rest, 
And  whatsoever  can  be  taught  and  known; 
Till  like  three  horses  that  have  broken  fence, 
And  glutted  all  night  long  breast-deep  in  com. 
We  Issued  gorged  writh  knowledge,  and  I  spoke : 
"  Why,  Sirs,  they  do  all  this  as  well  as  we." 
"They  hunt  old  trails,"  said  Cyril,  "very  well; 
But  when  did  woman  ever  yet  invent  7" 
"  Ungracious  I"  answer'd  Plorian,  "  have  yon  learnt 
No  more  from  Psyche's  lecture,  you  that  talk'd 
The  trash  that  made  me  sick,  and  almost  sad  f 
"  O  trash,"  he  said,  "  but  with  a  kernel  in  It. 
Should  I  not  call  her  wise,  who  made  me  wise? 
And  learnt?  I  learnt  more  fk-om  her  in  a  flash, 
Than  if  my  brainpan  were  an  empty  hull, 
And  every  Muse  tumbled  a  science  in. 
A  thousand  hearts  lie  fallow  in  these  balls, 
And  round  these  halls  a  thousand  baby  loves 
Fly  twanging  headless  arrows  at  the  hearts. 
Whence  follows  many  a  vacant  pang:  but  O 
With  me,  Sir,  enter'd  in  the  bigger  boy. 
The  Head  of  all  the  golden-shaifted  firm. 
The  long-limb'd  lad  that  bad  a  Psyche  too; 
lie  cleft  mq  thro'  the  stomacher ;  and  now 
What  think  you  of  It,  FlorlanT  do  I  chase 
The  substance  or  the  shadow  T  will  it  hold  f 
I  have  no  sorcerer's  malison  on  me. 
No  ghostly  haantings  like  his  Highness.    I 
Flatter  myself  that  always  everywhere 
I  know  the  substance  when  I  see  it.    Well, 
Are  castles  shadows  f    Three  of  them  f    Is  she 
The  sweet  proprietress  a  shadow  f    If  not. 
Shall  those  three  castles  patch  my  tatter'd  coat  i 
For  dear  are  those  three  castles  to  my  wants. 
And  dear  is  sister  Psyche  to  my  heart. 
And  two  dear  things  are  one  of  double  worth. 
And  much  I  might  have  said,  but  that  my  zone 
Unmann'd  me :  then  the  Doctors  I    O  to  hear 
The  Doctors !    O  to  watch  the  thirsty  plants 
Imbibing !  once  or  twice  I  thought  to  roar, 
To  break  my  chain,  to  shake  my  mane:  but  thou, 
Modulate  me.  Soul  of  mincing  mimicry ! 
Make  liquid  treble  of  that  bassoon,  my  throat ; 
Abase  those  eyes  that  ever  loved  to  meet 
Star-sisters  answering  under  crescent  brows; 
Abate  the  stride,  which  speaks  of  man,  and  loose 
A  flying  charm  of  blushes  o'er  this  cheek. 
Where  they  like  swallows  coming  out  of  time 
Will  wonder  why  they  came ;  but  hark  the  bell 
For  dinner,  let  us  go !" 

And  in  we  streara'd 
Among  the  columns,  pacing  staid  and  still 
By  twos  and  threes,  till  all  from  end  to  end 
With  beauties  every  shade  of  brown  and  fair, 
In  colors  gayer  than  the  morning  mist. 
The  long  hall  glitter'd  like  a  bed  of  flowers. 


How  might  a  man  not  wander  from  his  wits 
Pierced  thro'  with  eyes,  but  that  I  kept  mine  own 
Intent  on  her,  who  rapt  in  glorious  dreams. 
The  second-sight  of  some  Astra;au  age. 
Sat  compass'd  with  professors:  they,  the  while, 
Discuss'd  a  doubt  and  tost  it  to  and  fro: 
A  clamor  thicken'd,  mizt  with  inmost  terms 
Of  art  and  science :  Lady  Blanche  alone 
Of  faded  form  and  haughtiest  lineaments. 
With  all  her  Autumn  tresses  falsely  brown. 
Shot  sidelong  daggers  at  us,  a  tiger-cat 
Iq  act  to  spring. 

At  last  a  solemn  grace 
Concluded,  and  we  sought  the  gardens:  there 
One  walk'd  reciting  by  herself^  and  one 
In  this  hand  held  a  volume  as  to  read. 
And  smoothed  a  petted  peacock  down  with  that : 
Some  to  a  low  song  oar'd  a  shallop  by. 
Or  under  arches  of  the  marble  bridge 
Hung,  shadow'd  from  the  heat :  some  hid  and  sought 
In  the  orange  thickets:  others  tost  a  ball 
Above  the  fountaiu-jeta,  and  back  again 
With  laughter:  others  lay  about  the  lawns, 
Of  the  older  sort,  and  murmur'd  that  their  May 
Was  passing:  what  was  learning  unto  themf 
They  wlsh'd  to  marry ;  they  could  rule  a  house ; 
Men  hated  learned  women:  but  we  three 
Sat  muflled  like  the  Fates ;  and  often  came 
Melissa  hitting  all  we  saw  with  shafts 
Af  gentle  satire,  kin  to  charity. 
That  harm'd  not :  then  day  droopt ;  the  chapel  bells 
Call'd  OS :  we  left  the  walks ;  we  mixt  with  those 
Six  hundred  maidens  clad  in  purest  white. 
Before  two  streams  of  light  from  wall  to  wall. 
While  the  great  organ  almost  burst  his  pipes, 
Oroaniug  for  power,  and  rolling  thro'  the  court 
A  long  melodious  thunder  to  the  sound 
or  solemn  psalms,  and  silver  litanies, 
The  work  of  Ida,  to  call  down  ft-om  Heaven 
A  blessing  on  her  labors  for  the  world. 


Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea. 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow. 

Wind  of  the  western  sea  I 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  ftrom  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest. 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Best,  rest,  on  mother's  breast. 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon: 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 

m. 

Morn  in  the  white  wake  of  the  morning  star 
Came  furrowing  all  the  orient  into  gold. 
We  rose,  and  each  by  other  drest  with  care 
Descended  to  the  court  that  lay  three  parts 
In  shadow,  bat  the  Muses'  heads  were  touch'd 
Above  the  darkness  from  their  native  East 

There  while  we  stood  beside  the  fount,  and  watch'd 
Or  seem'd  to  watch  the  dancing  bubble,  approach'd 
Melissa,  tinged  with  wan  from  lack  of  sleep, 
Or  grief,  and  glowing  round  her  dewy  eyes 
The  circled  Iris  of  a  night  of  tears ; 
"  And  fly,"  she  cried,  "  O  fly,  while  yet  yon  may ! 
My  mother  knows:"  and  when  I  ask'd  her  "how," 
"  My  fault,"  she  wept,  "  my  fault !  and  yet  not  mine ; 
Yet  mine  in  part    O  hear  me,  pardon  me. 
My  mother,  't  is  her  wont  ft-om  nighrto  night 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLET. 


To  nil  at  Lady  Paycba  aad  bar  tida. 

Sha  aaja  Uta  Prinoaaa  ahould  have  baan  tba  Baad, 

Haraalf  and  Lady  Paycha  the  two  anna ; 

And  ao  It  waa  agraad  whan  tint  they  caoMi 

Bat  Lady  Piycha  waa  the  right  band  now, 

And  ahe  tlia  Ml,  or  not,  or  aeldom  oaad  ( 

Hara  bmh«  than  half  the  atodanta,  all  the  lov*. 

And  ao  laat  night  aha  Ml  to  canraaa  yoo  i 

*  Hmr  oonntrywoman  I  aha  did  not  envy  her. 

Who  erar  aaw  anch  wild  barbarians  r 

Otrlar— mora  Ilka  men  I*  and  at  thaaa  word*  the 

anake. 
My  aacrel,  aaem'd  to  stir  within  my  breaat ; 
And  O,  Sirs,  could  I  help  it,  but  my  cheek 
Began  to  bum  and  bum,  and  her  lynx  aye 
To  flz  and  make  mo  hotter,  till  abe  langh'd: 
'O  ntarvelloui>ly  modest  nialdco,  yonl 
Man  I  girlti,  like  meu !  why,  if  they  had  been  men 
Ton  need  not  aet  your  tbou);htM  In  rubric  thus 
For  wholeaala  comment.'    Panton,  I  am  shamed 
That  I  moat  needa  repeat  fur  my  excuse 
What  looka  ao  little  graceful :  *  men  '  (fur  still 
My  mother  went  revolring  on  the  word) 
'And  BO  they  are,— rery  like  men  indeed— 
And  with  that  woman  cloeetcd  fur  houra  I' 
•Why— these— «re  — men:'   I  shudder'd:   'and  you 

know  W 
Then  came  these  dreuUlhl  words  out  one  by  one, 
'  O  ask  me  nothing,*  I  said :  '  And  she  knows  too, 
And  she  conceals  it.'    So  my  mother  clatch'd 
The  tmth  at  once,  but  with  no  word  (him  me ; 
And  now  thna  early  risen  she  goes  to  inform 
The  Princess:  Lady  Psyche  will  be  cnuh'd; 
But  yon  may  yet  be  saTed,  and  therefore  fly : 
Bat  heal  me  with  yonr  pardon  ere  your  go." 

"  What  pardon,  sweet  Melissa,  for  a  blush  ?" 
Said  Cyril :  "  Pale  one,  blosh  again :  than  wear 
Thoee  lilies,  better  blush  onr  Uvea  away. 
Yet  let  ns  breathe  for  one  hoar  more  in  Heaven," 
He  added,  "  lest  some  classic  Angel  speak 
In  scorn  of  ns, '  they  moonted,  Ganymedes, 
To  tumble,  Vulcans,  on  the  second  mom.' 
But  I  will  melt  this  marble  into  wax 
To  yield  ns  farther  ftirlough:"  and  he  went 

Meliaaa  shook  her  doubtful  curls,  and  thought 
He  acaroe  would  prosper.   "  Tell  us,"  Florian  ask'd, 
"How  grew  this  fend  betwixt  the  right  and  left" 
"  O  long  ago,"  she  said,  "  betwixt  these  two 
Division  smoulders  hidden :  't  is  my  mother, 
Too  Jealous,  often  fitful  as  the  wind 
Pent  in  a  crevice  :  much  I  bear  with  her : 
I  never  knew  my  father,  but  she  says 
(God  help  her)  she  was  wedded  to  a  fool ; 
And  still  she  rail'd  against  the  state  of  things. 
She  had  the  care  of  Lady  Ida's  youth. 
And  from  the  Queen's  decease  she  brought  her  up. 
But  when  your  sister  came  she  won  the  heart 
Of  Ida :  they  were  still  together,  grew 
(For  so  they  said  themselves)  inosculated ; 
Consonant  chords  that  shiver  to  one  note ; 
One  mind  in  all  things:  yet  my  mother  still 
Al&nns  your  Psyche  thieved  her  theories. 
And  angled  with  them  for  her  pupil's  love: 
She  calls  her  plagiarist ;  I  know  not  what : 
But  I  mnst  go :  I  dare  not  tarry,"  and  light. 
As  fliea  the  shadow  of  a  bird,  she  fled. 

Then  murmnr'd  Florian,  gazing  after  her: 
"An  open-hearted  maiden,  trae  and  pure. 
If  I  could  love,  why  this  were  she :  how  pretty 
Her  blnahing  was,  and  bow  she  blnsh'd  again. 
As  if  to  close  with  Cyril's  random  wish : 
Not  like  your  Princess  cramm'd  with  erring  pride. 
Nor  like  poor  Psyche  whom  ahe  drags  in  tow." 

"The  crane,"  I  said,  "may  chatter  of  the  crane, 
The  dove  may  murmur  of  the  dove,  but  I 


An  eagto  dang  an  Mfle  to  tba  aptwra. 

My  prinoaaa,  O  my  princtMl  traa  abe  ana. 

Bat  In  bar  own  grand  w«y(  balog  baraelf 

Thrae  thaaa  mora  nobia  than  tbraa  aeura  of  man, 

Sha  aeaa  heraelf  in  every  woman  alae. 

And  ao  ahe  wears  her  error  like  a  crown 

To  blind  the  truth  and  me :  for  hor,  and  her, 

Uebea  are  they  to  hand  ambroaia,  mix 

The  nactar :  bat— ah  ah»— whene'er  she  moves 

The  Samian  Herd  ritea  and  ahe  apeaka 

A  Mamaon  amitten  with  tba  morning  Sun." 

So  aaytng,  firom  the  court  we  paced,  aad  galn'd 
The  terrace  ranged  along  the  Nortbara  (W>nt, 
And  leaning  there  on  those  balusters,  high 
Above  the  empnrplod  champaign,  drank  the  gale 
That  blown  about  the  foliage  nnderneath. 
And  sated  with  the  innumerable  ruae, 
neat  balm  upon  our  eyellda.    Hither  came 
Cyril,  and  yawning  "O  hard  task,"  he  cried: 
"No  fighting  shadows  here  I    I  forced  a  way 
Thro'  solid  opposition  crabb'd  and  gnarl'd. 
Better  to  clear  prime  foresta,  heave  and  thnmp 
A  league  of  street  in  summer  solstice  down, 
Than  hammer  at  this  reverend  gentlewoman. 
I  knock'd  and,  bidden,  enter'd :  found  her  tbcro 
At  point  to  move,  and  settled  in  her  eyes 
The  green  malignant  light  of  coming  storm. 
Sir,  I  was  courteous,  every  phrase  well-oil'd, 
As  man's  could  be ;  yet  maiden-meek  I  prny'd 
Concealment :  she  demanded  who  we  were, 
And  why  we  came?    I  fabled  nothing  fair, 
Hut,  your  example  pilot,  told  her  alL 
Up  went  the  husb'd  amaze  of  hand  and  eye. 
But  when  1  dwelt  upon  your  old  aflliince. 
She  answer'd  sharply  that  I  talk'd  astray. 
I  urged  the  fierce  inscription  on  the  gate. 
And  our  three  lives.    True— we  had  limed  onrselvea. 
With  open  eyes,  and  we  must  take  the  chance. 
But  such  extremes,  I  told  her,  well  might  barm 
The  woman's  cauae.     'Not  more   than   now,'  she 

said, 
'So  puddled  as  it  la  with  favoritism.' 
I  tried  the  mother's  heart    Shame  might  befiill 
Melissa,  knowing,  aaying  not  she  knew : 
Her  answer  was,  '  Leave  me  to  deal  with  that' 
I  spoke  of  war  to  come  and  many  deaths. 
And  she  replied,  her  doty  waa  to  speak. 
And  duty  duty,  clear  of  conaeqnencea. 
I  grew  disconraged.  Sir,  bat  since  I  knew 
No  rock  so  hard  but  that  a  little  wave 
May  beat  admission  in  a  thousand  years, 
I  recommenced :  '  Decide  not  ere  you  pause. 
I  find  you  here  but  in  the  second  place, 
Some  say  the  third — the  authentic  fottndress  yo<L 
I  offer  boldly :  we  will  seat  you  highest : 
Wink  at  onr  advent:  help  my  prince  to  gain 
His  righi(\il  bride,  and  here  I  promise  you 
Some  palace  in  oar  land,  where  you  shall  reign 
The  head  and  heart  of  all  our  fair  she-world. 
And  your  great  name  flow  on  with  broadening  time 
Forever.'    Well,  she  balanced  this  a  little. 
And  told  me  she  would  answer  us  to-day, 
Meantime  be  mute :  thus  much,  nor  more  I  gain'd." 

He  ceasing,  came  a  message  ttom  the  Head. 
"  That  afternoon  the  Prinoeaa  rode  to  take 
The  dip  of  certain  strata  to  the  NortiL 
Would  we  go  vrith  her?  we  should  find  the  land 
Worth  seeing ;  and  the  river  made  a  fall 
Out  yonder:"  then  she  pointed  on  to  where 
A  double  hill  ran  up  his  (tarrowy  forks 
Beyond  the  thick-leaved  platans  of  the  vale. 

Agreed  to,  this,  the  day  fled  on  thro'  all 
Its  range  of  duties  to  the  appointed  hour. 
Then  summon'd  to  the  porch  we  went.    She  atood 
Among  her  maidena,  higher  by  the  head, 


90 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


Her  back  against  a  pillar,  her  foot  on  one 
Of  those  tame  leopards.    Kittenlike  he  roll'd 
And  paw'd  aboat  ber  sandal.    I  drew  near : 
I  gazed.    On  a  sudden  my  strange  seizure  came 
Upon  me,  the  weird  vision  of  our  house : 
The  Princess  Ida  seem'd  a  hollow  show, 
Her  gay-furr'd  cats  a  painted  fantasy, 
Her  college  and  her  maidens,  empty  masks, 
And  I  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 
For  all  things  were  and  were  not.    Yet  I  felt 
My  heart  beat  thick  with  passion  and  with  awe ; 
Then  from  my  breast  the  involuntary  sigh 
Brake,  as  she  smote  me  with  the  light  of  eyes 
That  lent  my  knee  desire  to  kneel,  and  shook 
My  pulses,  till  to  horse  we  got,  and  so 
Went  forth  in  long  retinne  following  tip 
The  river  &b  it  narrow'd  to  the  bills. 

I  rode  beside  her  and  to  me  she  said: 
"O  friend,  we  trui<t  that  yon  esteem'd  us  not 
Too  harsh  to  your  companion  yester-mom ; 
Unwillingly  we  spake."    "No — not  to  her," 
I  answer'd,  "but  to  one  of  whom  we  epake 
Yonr  Highness  might  have  seem'd  the  thing  yoa  say." 
"Again?" she  cried,  "are  yoa  ambaMtdreaaea 
From  him  to  me  f  we  give  yon,  being  strange, 
A  license:  speak,  and  let  the  topic  die." 

I  stammcr'd  that  I  knew  him— conld  have  wlsh'd— 
"Our  king  expects— was  there  no  precontract? 
There  is  no  truer-hearted— ah,  you  seem 
All  he  preflgnred,  and  be  could  not  see 
The  bird  of  passage  flying  south  bat  long'd 
To  follow :  surely,  if  your  Highness  keep 
Your  purport,  you  will  shock  him  ev'n  to  death, 
Or  baser  coarses,  children  of  despair." 

"Poor  boy,"  she   said,   "can   be  not  read  — no 
books  f 
Qnoit,  tennis,  ball— no  games  f  nor  deals  in  that 
Which  men  delight  in,  martial  exercise? 
To  nurse  a  blind  ideal  like  a  girl, 
Methinks  he  seems  no  better  than  a  girl; 
Aa  girls  were  once,  aa  we  oaraelf  have  been : 
We  had  oar  dreamB-^>erhapa  be  mixt  with  them : 
We  touch  on  our  dead  self,  nor  shun  to  do  it, 
Being  other— since  we  learnt  our  meaning  here. 
To  lift  the  woman's  fall'n  divinity. 
Upon  an  even  pedestal  with  man." 

She  pansed,  and  added  with  a  hanghtier  smile : 
"  And  as  to  precontracts,  we  move,  my  ft-iend. 
At  no  man's  t)eck,  but  know  ourself  and  thee, 

0  Vashti,  noble  Vashti  I    Summon'd  ont 

She  kept  her  state,  and  left  the  drunken  king 
To  brawl  at  Shushan  underneath  the  palms." 

"Alas  yonr  Highness  breathes  ftill  East,"  I  said, 
"On  that  which  leans  to  you.     I  know  the  Prluee, 

1  prize  bis  truth :  and  then  how  vast  a  work 
To  assail  this  gray  pre-eminence  of  man  ! 
You  grant  me  license;  might  I  use  it?  think, 
Ere  half  be  done  perchance  your  life  may  fail ; 
Then  comes  the  feebler  heiress  of  your  plan. 
And  takes  and  ruins  all ;  and  thus  yonr  pains 
May  only  make  that  footprint  upon  sand 
Which  old-recurring  waves  of  prejudice 
Reemooth  to  nothing :  might  I  dread  that  you, 
With  only  Fame  for  spouse  and  yonr  great  deeds 
For  issue,  yet  may  live  in  vain,  and  miss. 
Meanwhile,  what  every  woman  counts  her  due. 
Love,  children,  happiness  ?" 

And  she  exclaim'd, 
"  Peace,  yon  yonng  savage  of  the  Northern  wild '. 
What  1    tho'  your  Prince's  love  were  like  a  God's, 
Have  we  not  made  ourself  the  sacrifice  ? 
Yon  are  bold  indeed :  we  are  not  talk'd  to  thus : 
Yet  will  we  say  for  children,  would  they  grew. 


Like  field-flowers  everywhere!  we  like  them  well: 

But  children  die ;  and  let  me  tell  you,  girl, 

Howe'er  you  babble,  great  deeds  cannot  die: 

They  with  the  sun  and  moon  renew  their  light 

Forever,  blessing  those  that  look  on  them. 

Children— that  men  may  pluck  them  from  our  hearts, 

Kill  us  with  pity,  break  us  with  ourselves — 

O — children — there  is  nothing  upon  earth 

More  miserable  than  she  that  has  a  son 

And  sees  him  err :  nor  would  we  work  for  fame ; 

Tho'  she  perhaps  might  reap  the  applause  of  Great, 

Who  learns  the  one  pod  sto  whence  afterhands 

May  move  the  world,  tho'  she  herself  efi'ect 

But  little :  wherefore  np  and  act,  nor  shrink 

For  fear  our  solid  aim  l>e  dissipated 

By  frail  successors.    Would,  indeed,  we  had  been. 

In  lien  of  many  mortal  flies,  a  race 

Of  giants  living,  each,  a  thousand  years. 

That  we  might  see  our  own  work  out,  and  watch 

The  aandy  footprint  harden  into  stone." 

I  answer'd  nothing,  doubtful  in  myself 
If  that  strange  Poet-princess  with  her  grand 
Imaginations  might  at  all  be  won. 
And  she  broke  ont  interpreting  my  thoaghta: 

"  No  doabt  we  eeem  a  kind  of  monster  to  you ; 
We  are  used  to  that:  for  women,  up  till  this 
Cramp'd  under  worse  than  Soath-«ea-iale  taboo, 
Dwarfs  of  the  gynsceam,  fail  so  far 
In  high  desire,  they  know  not,  cannot  gaeas 
How  much  their  welfare  is  a  passion  to  as. 
If  we  coald  give  them  surer,  quicker  proof— 
O  if  oar  end  were  less  achievable 
By  slow  approaches,  than  by  single  act 
Of  immolation,  any  phase  of  death. 
We  were  as  prompt  to  spring  against  the  pikes, 
Or  down  the  fiery  gnlf  as  talk  of  it. 
To  compass  oar  dear  sisters'  liberties." 

She  bow'd  as  if  to  veil  a  noble  tear ; 
And  ap  we  came  to  where  the  river  sloped 
To  plunge  in  cataract,  shattering  on  black  blocks 
A  breath  of  thunder.    O'er  it  shook  the  woods, 
And  danced  the  color,  and,  below,  stack  oat 
The  bonea  of  aome  vast  balk  that  lived  and  roar'd 
Before  man  waa.    She  gazed  awhile  and  said, 
"  Aa  these  rode  bonea  to  ns,  are  we  to  her 
That  will  be."    "Dare  we  dream  of  that,"  I  ask'd, 
"  Which  wrought  ns,  aa  the  workman  and  his  work. 
That  practice  betters?"  "  How,"  she  cried,  "yoa  love 
The  metaphysics !  read  and  earn  onr  prize, 
A  golden  broach:  beneath  an  emerald  plane 
Sits  Diotima,  teaching  him  that  died 
Of  hemlock ;  our  device ;  wrooght  to  the  life ; 
She  rapt  upon  ber  subject,  he  on  her : 
For  there  are  schools  for  all."    "  And  yet,"  I  said, 
"Methinks  1  have  not  found  among  them  all 
One  anatomic."    "  Nay,  we  thought  of  that," 
She  answer'd,  "but  it  pleased  ns  not:  in  truth 
We  shudder  but  to  dream  our  maids  should  ape 
Those  monstrous  males  that  carve  the  living  hound. 
And  cram  him  with  the  fragments  of  the  grave. 
Or  in  the  dark  dissolving  human  heart. 
And  holy  secrets  of  this  microcosm. 
Dabbling  a  shameless  hand  with  shameful  Jest, 
Eiicarnalize  their  spirits:  yet  we  know 
Knowledge  is  knowledge,  and  this  matter  hangs : 
Howbeit  oarself,  foreseeing  casualty. 
Nor  willing  men  should  come  among  ns,  learnt. 
For  many  weary  moons  before  we  came, 
This  craft  of  healing.    Were  yon  sick,  ourself 
Would  tend  upon  you.    To  yonr  question  now, 
Which  touches  on  the  workman  and  his  work. 
Let  there  be  light  and  there  was  light:  't  is  so: 
For  was,  and  is,  and  will  be,  are  but  is ; 
And  all  creation  is  one  act  at  once. 
The  birth  of  light :  but  we  that  are  not  all, 


THE  PRINCESS!  A  MEDLEY. 


91 


Ai  parta,  on  ■••  bat  pwta,  now  tbia,  now  tbat, 
And  Uv«,  p«r(bro6|  from  tbonxbt  to  tbooght,  and 

make 
On«  act  a  pbantom  of  racc«Mlon :  thaa 
Oar  waaknaaa  aomabow  abapea  tbe  abadow,  Ttm« ; 
Bat  In  tba  abadow  will  wo  work,  and  moald 
Tbe  woman  to  tbe  Ailler  day." 

Sba  apake 
^Altb  kindled  ejea :  we  rode  a  leagne  beyond, 
And,  o'er  a  bridge  of  pinewood  croaalni;,  came 
On  flowery  lerels  nndemeatb  the  rrai;, 
FtiU  ot  all  l>eanty.    "O  how  sweet,"  1  said, 
(Fbr  I  waa  balf-oblivioas  of  my  mask.) 
"  To  linger  here  with  one  thiil  loved  na."    "  Yea," 
She  aniwcr'd,  "  or  with  fair  phlluaopbiea 
That  lift  tho  flincy ;  fur  Indeed  theae  flelda 
Are  lorely,  lovelier  not  tho  Blyalan  lawna, 
Where  paced  tho  Dcmi);od8  of  old,  and  aaw 
The  Koft  white  vapor  streak  the  crowned  towers 
Bailt  to  the  San :"  then,  taming  to  her  maids, 
"  Pitch  oar  pavilion  here  upon  the  sward ; 
Lay  oat  the  viands."    At  the  word,  they  raised 
A  tent  of  satin,  elaborately  wrought 
With  fair  Corinna's  triumph :  here  xhc  stood. 
Engirt  wltb  many  a  florid  maideu-eheek. 
The  woman-conqueror:  woman-conqucr'd  there 
The  bearded  Victor  of  ten-thouRaiid  hymns. 
And  all  the  men  monm'd  at  his  side :  but  we 
Set  forth  to  climb :  then,  climbing,  Cyril  kept 
With  Psyche,  with  Melissa  Floriau,  I 
With  mine  affianced.    Many  a  little  hand 
Glanced  like  a  touch  of  sunshine  on  the  rocks. 
Many  a  light  foot  shone  like  a  Jewel  set 
In  the  dark  crag :  and  then  we  tum'd,  we  wound 
About  the  cliffs,  the  copses,  ont  and  in, 
Hammering  and  clinking,  chattering  stony  names 
Of  shale  and  hornblende,  rag  and  trap  and  tuff, 
Amygdaloid  and  trachyte,  till  the  Sun 
Qrew  broader  tomrd  his  death  and  fell,  and  all 
Tbe  roay  heights  came  out  above  the  lawns. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story : 
Tbe  long  light  shakes  across  tbe  lakes 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  tbe  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle ;  Imswer,  echoes,  dying,  djring,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  bear !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  I 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  boms  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  1 
Blow,  let  as  hear  the  purple  glens  replying : 
Blow,  bugle :  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  (h>m  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  aet  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

IV. 

"Tbksb  sinks  the  nebulous  star  we  call  tbe  Sun, 
If  that  hypothesis  of  theirs  be  sound," 
Said  Ida;  "let  us  down  and  rest:"  and  we 
Down  from  tbe  lean  and  wrinkled  precipicea. 
By  every  coppice-featber'd  chasm  and  cleft, 
Dropt  thro'  the  ambrosial  gloom  to  where  below 
No  bigger  than  a  glow-worm  shone  the  tent 
L4unp-]it  from  the  inner.    Once  she  lean'd  on  me, 
Descending;  once  or  twice  she  lent  her  hand, 
And  blissfbl  palpitations  in  the  blood. 
Stirring  a  sudden  transport  rose  and  fell. 

But  when  we  planted  level  feet,  and  dipt 
Beneath  tbe  satin  dome  and  enter'd  in, 


Than  laantng  deep  In  broidar'd  down  we  sank 
Oar  elbowa:  on  a  tripbd  In  the  mldat 
A  fragrant  flame  rose,  and  balbra  na  glow'd 
Prnlt,  bkMaom,  viand,  amber  wlna,  and  gold. 

Then  aha,  "Let  acme  one  aing  to  na:  Hghtlier 
move 
The  minntaa  fledged  wltb  masic :"  and  a  maid. 
Of  thoaa  baalde  her,  amote  her  harp,  and  aang. 

"  Tears,  idle  tear^  I  know  not  what  thay  mean, 
Tears  from  tho  depth  of  some  divine  deapalr 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyea, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Antumn-flclds, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"  Freah  aa  tbe  flrst  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brlnga  oar  friends  up  fh>m  tho  underworld. 
Sad  aa  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
Tbat  sinks  with  all  wo  love  below  tho  verge ; 
So  aad,  ao  fresh,  tbe  days  that  are  no  more. 

"Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyea 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square; 
So  aad,  so  strange,  the  daya  tbat  are  no  more. 

"Dear  as  remember'd  kisaea  after  death. 
And  sweet  aa  those  by  hopeless  Dancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others;  deep  as  love. 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

She  ended  with  such  passion  tbat  the  tear. 
She  sang  of,  shook  and  fell,  an  erring  pearl 
Lost  in  her  bosom :  but  with  some  disdain 
Answer'd  the  Princess:  "If  indeed  there  bauut 
About  the  monlder'd  lodges  of  the  Past 
So  sweet  a  voice  and  vague,  fatal  to  men, 
Well  needs  it  we  should  cram  our  ears  with  wool 
And  so  pace  by:  but  thine  are  fancies  batch'd 
In  silken-folded  idleness;  nor  is  it 
Wiser  to  weep  a  tme  occasion  lost, 
But  trim  our  sails,  and  let  old  bygones  be. 
While  down  the  streams  that  float  us  each  and  all 
To  the  issue,  goes,  like  glittering  bergs  of  ice, 
Throne  after  throne,  and  molten  on  the  waste 
Becomes  a  cloud:  for  all  things  serve  their  time 
Toward  that  great  year  of  equal  mights  and  rigbta. 
Nor  would  I  fight  with  iron  laws,  in  the  end 
Found  golden :  let  the  past  be  past ;  let  be 
Their  cancell'd  Babels:  tho'  the  rough  kex  break 
The  starr'd  mosaic,  and  the  wild  goat  hang 
Upon  the  shaft,  and  the  wild  fig-tree  split 
Their  monstrous  Idols,  care  not  while  we  hear 
A  trampet  in  the  distance  pealiug  news 
Of  better,  and  Hope,  a  poising  eagle,  bums 
Above  the  nnrisen  morrow:"  then  to  me, 
"  Know  you  no  song  of  your  own  land,"  she  said, 
"Not  such  as  moans  about  the  retrospect, 
But  deals  with  the  other  distance  and  the  hues 
Of  promise ;  not  a  death's-head  at  the  wine." 

Then  I  remember'd  one  myself  had  made. 
What  time  I  watch'd  the  swallow  winging  sooth 
From   mine  own  land,  part  made  long  since,  and 

part 
Now  while  I  sang,  and  maidenlike  as  far 
As  I  could  ape  their  treble,  did  I  sing. 

"  O  Swallow,  Swallow,  flying,  flying  Soatb, 
Fly  to  her,  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves. 
And  tell  her,  tell  her  what  I  tell  to  thee. 

"  O  tell  her.  Swallow,  thou  that  knowest  each. 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the  South, 
And  dark  and  trae  and  tender  is  the  North. 


92 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


"O  Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I  conld  follow  and  light 
Upon  her  lattice,  I  would  pipfe  and  trill. 
And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  loves. 

"O  were  I  thoa  that  she  might  take  me  in, 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  iieart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I  died. 

"  Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart  with  love. 
Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself;  when  all  the  woods  are  green? 

"O  tell  her,  Swallow,  that  thy  brood  is  flown : 
Say  to  her,  I  do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is  made. 

"  O  tell  her,  brief  is  life,  but  love  is  long, 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South. 

"O  Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden  woods. 
Fly  to  her,  and  pii>e  and  woo  her,  and  make  her 

mine. 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  I  follow  thee." 

I  ceased,  and  all  the  ladles,  each  at  each, 
Like  the  Ithacenslan  raitors  in  old  time, 
Stared  with  great  eyes,  and  laugh'd  with  alien  lips. 
And  knew  not  what  they  meant;  for  still  my  voice 
Bang  false :  but  smiling,  "  Not  for  thee,"  she  said, 
"  O  Bulbul,  any  rose  of  Qulistan 
Shall  burst  her  veil :  mursh-divers,  rather,  maid. 
Shall  croak  thee  sister,  or  the  meadow-crake 
Qrate  her  harsh  kindred  in  the  grass :  and  tills 
A  mere  love  poem !    O  for  such,  my  friend. 
We  hold  them  slight :  they  mind  ns  of  the  time 
When  we  made  bricks  in  Egypt     Knaves  are  men. 
That  lute  and  flute  fantastic  tendemeaa. 
And  dress  the  victim  to  the  olTering  up, 
And  paint  the  gates  of  Hell  with  Paradiae, 
And  play  the  slave  to  gain  the  tyranny. 
Poor  soul !  I  had  a  mnld  of  honor  once ; 
She  wept  her  true  eyes  blind  fur  such  a  one, 
A  rogue  of  canzonets  and  serenades. 
I  loved  her.    Peace  be  with  her.    She  la  dead. 
So  tliey  blaspheme  the  muse  t  but  great  is  song 
Used  to  great  ends :  ourself  have  often  tried 
Valkyrian  hymns,  or  into  rhythm  have  dash'd 
The  passion  of  the  prophetess ;  for  song 
Is  duer  unto  freedom,  force  and  growth 
Of  spirit,  than  to  Junketing  and  love. 
Love  is  it  r    Would  this  same  mock-love,  and  this 
Mock-Hymen  were  laid  up  like  winter  bats, 
Till  all  men  grew  to  rate  us  at  our  worth. 
Not  vassals  to  be  beat,  nor  pretty  babes 
To  be  dandled,  no,  but  living  wills,  and  sphered 
Whole  in  ourselves  and  owed  to  none.    Enough ! 
But  now  to  leaven  play  with  profit,  yon. 
Enow  you  no  song,  the  tme  growth  of  your  soil, 
That  gives  the  manners  of  your  countrywomen  f " 

She  spoke  and  torn'd  her  Bumptnona  head  with 

eyes 
Of  shining  expectation  flxt  on  mine. 
Then  while  I  dragg'd  my  brains  for  snch  a  song, 
Cyril,  with  whom  the  bell-month'd  flask  had  wrought. 
Or  master'd  by  the  sense  of  sport,  began 
To  troll  a  careless,  careless  tavern-catch 
Of  Moll  and  Meg,  and  strange  experiences 
Unmeet  for  ladles.    Florian  nodded  at  him, 
I  frowning ;  Psyche  flush'd  and  wann'd  and  shook ; 
The  lllyllke  Melissa  droop'd  her  brows; 
"  Forbear,"  the  Princess  cried ;  "  Forbear,  Sir,"  I ; 
And  heated  thro'  and  thro'  with  wrath  and  love, 
I  smote  him  on  the  breast ;  he  started  up ; 
There  rose  a  shriek  as  of  a  city  sack'd ; 
Melissa  clamor'd,  "Flee  the  death;"  "To  horse," 
Said  Ida ;  "  home  1  to  horse !"  and  fled,  as  flies 


A  troop  of  snowy  doves  athwart  the  dusk, 

When  some  one  batters  at  the  dovecote  doors, 

Disorderly  the  women.    Alone  I  stood 

With  Florian,  cursing  Cyril,  vext  at  heart, 

In  the  pavilion:  there  like  parting  hopes 

I  heard  them  passing  from  me :  hoof  by  hoof. 

And  every  hoof  a  knell  to  my  desires, 

Clang'd  on  the  bridge;  and  then  another  shriek, 

"  The  Head,  the  Head,  the  Princess,  O  the  Head  1" 

For  blind  with  rage  she  miss'd  the  plank,  and  roll'd 

In  the  river.    Out  I  sprang  from  glow  to  gloom: 

There  whirl'd  her  white  robe  like  a  blossom'd  branch 

Rapt  to  the  horrible  fall :  a  glance  I  gave, 

No  more ;  but  woman-vested  as  I  was 

Plunged;  and  the  flood  drew;  yet  I  caught  her; 

then 
Oaring  one  arm,  and  bearing  in  my  left 
The  weight  of  all  the  hopes  of  half  the  world, 
Strove  to  buff'et  to  land  In  vain.    A  tree 
Was  half-dlsrooted  from  his  place  and  stoop'd 
To  drench  his  dark  locks  in  the  gurgling  wave 
Mid-channeL    Right  on  this  we  drove  and  canght. 
And  grasping  down  the  boughs  I  gain'd  the  shore. 

There  stood  her  maidens  glimmeringly  gronp'd 
In  the  hollow  bank.  One  reaching  forward  drew 
My   burthen    from   mine   arms;    they   cried,  "She 

lives !" 
They  bore  her  back  Into  the  tent ;  but  L 
So  much  a  kind  of  shame  within  me  wrought, 
Not  yet  endured  to  meet  her  o|>ening  eyes. 
Nor  found  my  friends;  but  push'd  alone  on  foot 
(For  since  her  horse  was  lost  I  left  her  mine) 
Across  the  woods,  and  less  trom  Indian  craft 
Than  beelike  instinct  hiveward,  found  at  length 
The  garden  portals.    Two  great  statnes,  Art 
And  Science,  Caryatids,  lifted  up 
A  weight  of  emblem,  and  betwixt  were  valves 
Of  open-work  in  which  the  huntw  rued 
His  rash  intrusion,  manlike,  but  Ins  brows 
Had  sprouted,  and  the  branches  thereupon 
Spread  out  at  top,  and  grimly  spiked  the  gates. 

A  little  space  was  left  between  the  boms, 
Thro'  which  I  clamber'd  o'er  at  top  with  pain, 
Drupt  on  the  sward,  and  up  the  linden  walks. 
And,  tost  on  thoughts  that  changed  from  hue  to  hue. 
Now  poring  on  the  glow-worm,  now  the  star, 
I  paced  the  terrace  till  the  bear  had  wheel'd 
Thro'  a  great  arc  his  seven  slow  suns. 

A  step 
Of  lightest  echo,  then  a  loftier  form 
Than  female,  moving  thro'  the  uncertain  gloom, 
DLsturb'd  me  with  the  doubt  "  if  this  were  she," 
But  it  was  Florian.    "  Hist,  O  hist,"  he  said, 
"  They  seek  ns:  out  so  late  Is  out  of  rules. 
Moreover  '  Seize  the  strangers  '  is  the  cry. 
How  came  yon  here?"    I  told  him:  "I,"  said  he, 
"  Last  of  the  train,  a  moral  leper,  I, 
To  whom  none  spake,  half-sick  at  heart,  retnrn'd. 
Arriving  all  confused  among  the  rest 
With  hooded  brows  I  crept  Into  the  hall. 
And,  couch'd  behind  a  Judith,  underneath 
The  head  of  Holofernes  peep'd  and  saw. 
Girl  after  girl  was  call'd  to  trial:  each 
Dlsclalm'd  all  knowledge  of  us :  last  of  all, 
Melissa :  trust  me.  Sir,  I  pitied  her. 
She,  qnestion'd  if  she  knew  ns  men,  at  first 
Was  silent;  closer  prest,  denied  it  not: 
And  then,  demanded  if  her  mother  knew. 
Or  Psyche,  she  afllrm'd  not,  or  denied : 
From  whence  the  Royal  mind,  familiar  with  her. 
Easily  gather'd  either  guilt.    She  sent 
For  Psyche,  but  she  was  not  there ;  she  call'd 
For  Psyche's  child  to  cast  it  from  the  doors ; 
She  sent  for  Blanche  to  accuse  her  face  to  face ; 
And  I  sllpt  out:  but  whither  will  you  now? 
And  where  are  Psyche,  Cyril  ?  both  arc  fled  : 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


M 


What,  If  toKotherr  that  w«ra  not  m  w«IL 
Would  rather  we  had  mmt  oome  I    I  drMwl 
His  wildooaa,  and  th«  clianoea  of  ttaa  dark." 

**  And  yvt,"  I  aaid,  "yoa  wrong  blm  moi*  than  I 
That  atrack  him :  thU  tii  proper  to  the  down, 
Tho*  nnock'tl,  or  rtirr'd  and  parplod,  atlll  tha  down. 
To  harm  the  thiii);  thnt  trusta  htm,  and  to  ahama 
That  which  be  sajra  he  luvea :  for  Cyril,  howe'er 
He  deal  in  frolic,  as  to-night— the  aong 
Might  hare  been  worM  and  Ktnn'd  iu  groaser  Upa 
Bayoad  all  pardon— aa  It  is,  I  bold 
Tbaaa  flaahea  on  the  snrflice  aro  not  he. 
He  has  a  solid  base  of  temperament : 
But  aa  the  water-lily  starts  and  slides 
Upon  the  level  iu  little  puffs  of  wind, 
Tho*  ancbor'd  to  the  bottom,  sacb  is  bo." 

Scarce  had  I  oeaaed  when  fh)m  a  tamariak  near 
Two  Proctors  leapt  upon  as,  crying,  "  Names," 
He,  standing  still,  was  clntch'd :  bat  I  began 
To  thrid  the  munky-clrclcd  niiizcs,  wind 
And  double  in  and  out  tho  boles,  and  race 
By  all  the  fountains :  fleet  I  was  of  foot : 
Befbre  me  shower'd  the  rose  in  flakes;  behind 
I  heard  the  pufTd  pursuer ;  at  mine  ear 
Babbled  the  nii;htiu)nkle  nnd  hevded  not, 
And  secret  laughter  tickled  all  my  eouL 
At  last  I  hook'd  my  ankle  in  a  rine. 
That  claspt  the  feet  of  a  Mnemosyne, 
And  falling  on  my  face  was  caught  and  known. 

They  haled  us  to  the  Princess  where  she  sat 
High  in  the  hall :  above  ber  droop'd  a  lamp, 
And  made  the  single  Jewel  on  her  brow 
Bum  like  the  mystic  fire  on  a  mast-head. 
Prophet  of  storm  :  a  handmaid  on  each  side 
Bow'd  toward  her,  combing  out  her  long  black  hair 
Damp  from  the  river;  and  close  l>ehind  ber  stood 
Bight  daughters  of  the  plough,  stronger  than  men, 
Hage  women  blowzed  with   health,  and  wind,  and 

rain. 
And  labor.    Bach  was  like  a  Dmid  rock; 
Or  like  a  spire  of  land  that  stands  apart 
Cleft  fW>m  the  main,  and  wail'd  about  with  mews. 

Then,  as  we  came,  the  crowd  dividing  clove 
An  advent  to  the  throne ;  and  there-beside, 
Half-naked,  as  if  caught  at  once  IVom  t>ed 
And  tumbled  on  the  purple  footclotb,  lay 
The  lily-shining  child ;  and  on  the  left, 
Bow'd  on  her  palms  and  folded  up  fl-om  wrong, 
Her  round  white  shoulder  shaken  with  her  sobe, 
Melissa  knelt ;  bnt  Lady  Blanche  erect 
Stood  ap  and  spake,  an  affluent  orator. 

"  It  was  not  thas,  O  Princees,  in  old  days : 
Ton  prized  my  counsel,  lived  upon  my  lips : 
I  led  yon  then  to  all  the  Castalies; 
I  fed  yon  with  the  milk  of  every  Muse ; 
I  loved  yon  like  this  kneeler,  and  yon  me 
Tour  second  mother:  those  were  gracious  times. 
Then  came  your  new  friend :  yon  began  to  change — 
I  saw  it  and  grieved— to  slacken  and  to  cool ; 
Till  taken  with  ber  seeming  openness 
You  turned  yonr  wanner  currents  all  to  her. 
To  me  yon  froze:  this  was  my  meed  for  alL 
Yet  I  bore  up  in  part  fW)m  ancient  love, 
And  partly  that  I  hoped  to  win  yon  back, 
And  partly  conscioas  of  my  own  deserts, 
And  partly  that  yon  were  my  civil  head. 
And  chiefly  yon  were  bom  for  something  great, 
In  which  I  might  yonr  fellow-worker  be. 
When  time  shoald  serve ;  and  thas  a  noble  adieme 
Grew  up  fh>m  seed  we  two  long  since  bad  town ; 
In  ns  true  growth,  in  her  a  Jonah's  gourd. 
Up  in  one  night  and  due  to  sudden  sun: 
We  took  this  palace ;  bat  even  from  the  first 


Yoa  atood  In  yoar  own  light  and  darken'd  mina. 
What  itndent  came  but  tiiat  yoa  planed  her  path 
To  Lady  Payche,  younger,  not  ao  wiae, 
A  (brelgner,  and  I  your  coantrywoman, 
1  yonr  old  fHend  and  tried,  abe  new  In  all  1 
Bat  atill  ber  lisu  were  sweli'd  and  mine  ware  lean ; 
Yet  I  bore  op  in  hope  she  would  be  known : 
Then  came  theae  wolvea:  Otty  knew  hart  Ony  an* 

dnrad, 
Long-doaeted  with  her  the  yester-mom, 
To  tell  her  what  they  were,  and  she  to  heart 
And  me  none  told :  not  less  to  an  eye  Uka  minai 
A  ildleea  watcher  of  tho  public  weal. 
Last  night,  their  mask  was  patent,  and  my  foot 
Was  to  yon :  but  I  thought  again :  I  fear'd 
To  meet  a  cold  '  We  thank  yon,  we  shall  bear  of  it 
Prom  I^dy  IVyche:'  you  had  gone  to  her, 
She  told,  perforce ;  and  winning  easy  grace. 
No  doubt,  for  slight  delay,  remain'd  among  as 
In  our  young  nursery  still  unknown,  the  stem 
Less  grain  Uian  touchwood,  while  my  honeat  haat 
Were  all  miscounted  aa  malignant  haste 
To  push  my  rival  out  of  place  and  power. 
But  public  tue  required  she  shoald  be  known ; 
And  since  my  oath  was  ta'en  for  public  ase, 
I  broke  the  letter  of  it  to  keep  the  sense. 
I  spoke  not  then  at  first,  but  wut^h'd  them  well,     ', 
Saw  that  they  kept  apart,  no  mlKhicf  done : 
And  yet  this  day  (tho*  you  should  hate  me  for  it) 
I  came  to  tell  you:  fonnd  that  yon  had  gone, 
Ridd'n  to.  tho  hills,  she  likewise :  now,  I  thought. 
That  surely  she  will  8i>cak ;  if  not,  then  I : 
Did  she  f    These  monsters  blazon 'd  wliat  they  were, 
According  to  the  coarseness  of  their  kind, 
For  thus  I  hear ;  and  known  at  last  (my  work) 
And  foil  of  cowardice  and  gnilty  shame, 
I  grant  in  her  some  sense  of  shame,  she  flies ; 
And  I  remain  on  whom  to  wreak  your  rage, 
I,  that  have  lent  my  life  to  build  up  yours, 
I  that  have  wasted  here  health,  wealth,  and  time. 
And  talebts,  I— you  know  it — 1  will  not  boast: 
Dismiss  me,  and  I  prophesy  your  plan, 
Divorced  from  my  experience,  will  be  chaff 
For  every  g^st  of  chance,  and  men  will  say 
We  did  not  know  the  real  light,  but  chased 
The  wisp  that  flickers  where  no  foot  can  tread." 

She  ceased :  the  Princess  answer'd  coldly  "  Good : 
Yonr  oath  is  broken :  we  dismiss  you :  ga 
For  this  lost  lamb  (she  pointed  to  the  child) 
Our  mind  is  changed:  we  take  it  to  ourselC" 

Thereat  the  Lady  stretch'd  a  vulture  throat, 
And  shot  from  crooked  lips  a  haggard  smile. 
"The  plan  was  mine.    I  built  the  nest,"  she  said, 
"  To  hatch  the  cuckoo.   Rise !"  and  stoop'd  to  updrag 
Melissa:  she,  half  on  ber  mother  propt, 
Half-Drooping  from  her,  tura'd  ber  face,  and  cast 
A  liquid  look  on  Ida,  full  of  prayer. 
Which  melted  Florian's  fancy  as  she  hong, 
A  Nlobfian  daughter,  one  arm  out. 
Appealing  to  the  bolts  of  Heaven :  and  while 
We  gazed  upon  ber  came  a  little  stir 
About  the  doors,  and  on  a  sudden  rash'd 
Among  us,  out  of  breath,  as  one  pursued, 
A  woman-post  in  flying  raiment.    Fear 
Stared  in  her  eyes,  and  chalk'd  ber  (ace,  and  wing'd 
Her  transit  to  the  throne,  whereby  she  fell 
Delivering  seal'd  despatches  which  the  Head 
Took  baif-amazfld,  and  in  ber  lion's  mood 
Tore  open,  silent  we  with  blind  surmise 
Regarding,  while  she  read,  till  over  brow 
And  cheek  and  bosom  brake  the  wrathfhl  bU>om 
As  of  some  Are  against  a  stormy  cloud. 
When  the  wild  peasant  rights  himself,  the  rick 
Flames,  and  hia  anger  reddens  in  the  heavens ; 
For  anger  most  it  seem'd,  while  now  her  breast. 
Beaten  with  some  great  passion  at  her  heart, 


94 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


Palpitated,  her  hand  shook,  and  we  heard 
In  the  dead  hush  the  papers  that  she  held 
Rustle:  at  once  the  lost  lamb  at  her  feet 
Sent  out  a  bitter  bleating  for  its  dam ; 
The  plaintive  cry  jarr'd  on  her  ire ;  she  cmBh'd 
The  scrolls  together,  made  a  sudden  turn 
As  if  to  speak,  but,  utterance  failing  her, 
She  whirl'd  them  on  to  me,  as  who  should  say 
"Bead,"  and  I  read— two  letters— one  her  aire's. 

"  Fair  daughter,  when  we  sent  the  Prince  your  way 
We  knew  not  your  ungracious  laws,  which  learnt. 
We,  conscious  of  what  temi)er  you  are  built, 
Came  all  in  haste  to  hinder  wrong,  but  fell 
Into  his  father's  hands,  who  has  this  night, 
You  lying  close  upon  his  territory, 
Slipt  round  and  in  the  dark  invested  you. 
And  here  he  keeps  me  hostage  for  his  bod." 

The  second  was  my  f8tber'^  ronniDg  thos : 
"You  have  our  son :  touch  not  a  hair  of  his  head: 
Render  him  up  unscathed:  give  him  your  hand: 
Cleave  to  your  contract:  tho'  indeed  we  hear 
You  bold  the  woman  is  the  better  man; 
A  rampant  heresy,  such  as  if  it  spread 
Would  make  all  women  kick  against  their  lords 
Thro'  all  the  world,  and  which  might  well  deserve 
That  we  this  night  should  pluck  your  palace  down ; 
And  we  will  do  it,  unless  you  send  ns  back 
Our  SOD,  on  the  iDstaDt,  whole." 

So  far. I  read; 
And  then  stood  up  and  spoke  impetuously. 

"O  not  to  pry  and  peer  od  your  reaenre, 
But  led  by  golden  wishes,  and  a  hope 
The  child  of  regal  compact,  did  I  break 
Your  precinct;  not  a  scoruer  of  your  sex 
But  venerator,  zealous  it  should  be 
All  that  it  might  be;  hear  me,  for  I  bear, 
Tho'  man,  yet  human,  whatsoe'er  your  wrongs, 
From  the  flaxen  curl  to  the  gray  lock  a  life 
Less  mine  than  yours:   my  nurse  would  tell  me  of 

yon; 
I  babbled  for  you,  as  babies  for  the  moon. 
Vague  brightness ;  when  a  boy,  yon  stoop'd  to  me 
From  all  high  places  lived  in  all  fair  lights, 
Came  in  long  breeies  rapt  from  inmost  south 
And  blown  to  inmost  north ;  at  eve  and  dawn 
With  Ida,  Ida,  Ida,  rang  the  woods ; 
The  leader  wildswan  in  among  the  stars 
Would  clang  It,  and  lapt  In  wreaths  of  glow-worm 

light 
The  mellow  breaker  murmnr'd  Ida.    Now, 
Because  I  would  have  reach'd  you,  had  you  been 
Sphered  up  with  CassiopOia,  or  the  enthroned 
Persephone  in  Hades,  now  at  length. 
Those  winters  of  abeyance  all  worn  out, 
A  man  I  came  to  see  you :  but,  indeed. 
Not  in  this  frequence  can  I  lend  full  tongue, 

0  noble  Ida,  to  those  thoughts  that  wait 
On  you,  their  centre :  let  me  say  but  this. 
That  many  a  famous  man  and  woman,  town 
And  landskip,  have  I  heard  of,  after  seen 

The  dwarfs  of  prestige ;  tho'  when  knowD,  there  grew 
Another  kind  of  beanty  in  detail 
Made  them  worth  knowing;  but  in  you  I  found 
My  boyish  dream  involved  and  dazzled  down 
And  master'd,  while  that  after-beauty  makes 
Such  head  from  act  to  act,  from  hour  to  hour, 
Within  me,  that  except  you  slay  me  here. 
According  to  your  bitter  statute-book, 

1  can  not  cease  to  follow  you,  as  they  say 
The  seal  does  music ;  who  desire  you  more 
Than  growing  boys  their  manhood ;  dying  lips. 
With  many  thousand  matters  left  to  do. 

The  breath  of  life ;  O  more  than  poor  men  wealth, 
Than  sick  men  health— yours,  yours,  not  mine— but 
half 


Without  yon,  with  you,  whole ;  and  of  those  halves 
You  worthiest ;  and  howe'er  you  block  and  bar 
Your  heart  with  system  out  from  mine,  I  hold 
That  it  becomes  no  man  to  nurse  despair, 
But  in  the  teeth  of  clench'd  antagonisms 
To  follow  up  the  worthiest  till  he  die : 
Yet  that  I  came  not  all  unauthorized 
Behold  your  father's  letter." 

On  one  knee 
Kneeling,  I  gave  it,  which  she  canght,  and  dash'd 
Unopen'd  at  her  feet :  a  tide  of  fierce 
Invective  seem'd  to  wait  behind  her  lips, 
As  waits  a  river  level  with  the  dam 
Ready  to  burst  and  flood  the  world  with  foam; 
And  so  she  would  have  spoken,  but  there  rose 
A  hubbub  in  the  court  of  half  the  maids 
Oather'd  together :  from  the  illumined  hall 
Long  lanes  of  splendor  slanted  o'er  a  press 
Of  snowy  shoulders,  thick  as  herded  ewes. 
And  rainbow  robes,  and  gems  and  gem-like  eyes, 
And  gold  and  golden  heads ;  they  to  and  fro 
Fluctuated,  as  flowers  in  storm,  some  red,  some  pale. 
All  open-mouth'd,  all  gazing  to  the  light. 
Some  crying  there  was  an  army  in  the  land. 
And  some  that  men  were  in  the  very  walls, 
And  some  they  cared  not;  till  a  clamor  grew 
As  of  a  new-world  Babel,  woman-bnilt, 
.\Dd  worse  ooDfouuded:  high  al>ove  them  stood 
The  placid  marble  Muses,  looking  peace. 

Not  peace  she  look'd,  the  Head :  but  rising  up 
Robed  in  the  loug  night  of  her  deep  hair,  so 
To  the  open  wiDdow  moved,  remaining  there 
Fizt  like  a  beacon-tower  above  the  waves 
Of  tempest,  when  the  crimsoD-rolltng  eye 
Glares  ruin,  and  the  wild  birds  on  the  light 
Dash  themselves  dead.    She  stretch'd  her  arms  and 

call'd 
Across  the  tumult  and  the  tumult  fell. 

"What  fear  ye  brawlers?  am  not  I  your  Head 7 
On  me,  me,  me,  the  storm  first  breaks :  /  dare 
All  these  male  thunderbolts :  what  is  it  ye  fear  r 
Peace  1  there  are  those  to  avenge  us  and  they  come: 
If  not,— myself  were  like  enough,  O  girls. 
To  unfurl  the  maiden  banner  of  our  rights^ 
And  clad  in  iron  burst  the  ranks  of  war, 
Or,  falling,  protomartyr  of  our  cause. 
Die:  yet  I  blame  ye  not  so  much  for  fear; 
Six  thousand  years  of  fear  have  made  ye  that 
From  which  I  would  redeem  ye  :  but  for  those 
That  stir  this  hubbub — you  and  you — I  know 
Your  faces  there  in  the  crowd — to-morrow  mom 
We  hold  a  great  convention :  then  shall  they 
That  love  their  Yoices  more  than  duty,  learn 
With  whom  they  deal,  dismiss'd  in  shame  to  live 
No  wiser  than  their  mother?,  household  stufl", 
Live  chattels,  mincers  of  each  other's  fame. 
Full  of  weak  poison,  turnspits  for  the  clown, 
The  drunkard's  football,  laughing-stocks  of  Time, 
Whose  brains  are  in  their  hands  and  in  their  heels. 
But  fit  to  flaunt,  to  dress,  to  dance,  to  thrum, 
To  tramp,  to  scream,  to  burnish,  and  to  scour. 
Forever  slaves  at  home  and  fools  abroad." 

She,  ending,  waved  her  hands :  thereat  the  crowd 
Muttering  dissolved :  then  with  a  smile,  that  look'd 
A  stroke  of  cruel  sunshine  on  the  cliff. 
When  all  the  glens  are  drown'd  in  azure  gloom 
Of  thunder-shower,  she  floated  to  us  and  said : 

"Yon  have  done  well  and  like  a  gentleman, 
And  like  a  prince :  you  have  our  thanks  for  all : 
And  you  look  well  too  in  your  woman's  dress: 
Well  have  yon  done  and  like  a  gentleman. 
You  saved  our  life:  we  owe  you  bitter  thanks: 
Better  have  died  and  spilt  our  bones  in  the  flood- 
Then  men  had  said — but  now — What  hinders  me 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


To  Uln  rach  bloody  TmgMnoe  on  jou  both  f— 
Tet  since  our  (kther— Wupa  In  our  good  blvr, 
Too  wunld-be  quenchera  of  tb«  littht  to  be, 
Barbarians,  groaaer  than  yonr  native  bear»— 

0  woald  I  had  his  sceptre  for  one  hour  I 

Tou  that  have  dared  to  break  our  bound,  and  guH'd 
Our  serrants,  wrong'd  and  lied  and  thwarted  us— 
/  wed  with  thee !  /  bound  by  precontract 
Your  bride,  ;our  bondslave  1  not  tho'  all  the  gold 
That  veinii   the  world  were  pack'd   to  make  your 

crown. 
And  erery  spoken  tongne  should  lord  yon.     Sir, 
Year  fUsehood  and  yourself  are  hateful  to  nst 

1  trample  on  your  oilers  and  on  you: 
Begone :  we  will  not  look  upon  yon  more. 
Here,  push  them  out  at  gates." 

In  wrath  she  spake. 
Then  those  cit;ht  mighty  dan;;htcr8  of  the  plough 
Bent  their  broad  flices  toward  us  and  sddress'd 
Their  motion :  twice  I  sought  to  picsd  my  cause, 
Bnt  on  my  fhouldcr  huiiR  their  heavy  hands, 
The  weight  of  destiny :  so  from  her  face 
They  pnsh'd  as,  down  the  steps,  and  thro'  the  court. 
And  with  grim  laughter  thrust  us  out  at  gates. 

We  cross'd  the  street  and  galn'd  a  petty  mound 
Beyond  it,  whence  we  saw  the  lij^hts  and  heard 
The  voices  murmuring.    While  I  Usten'd,  came 
On  a  sudden  the  weird  seizure  and  the  doubt: 
I  seem'd  to  move  among  a  world  of  ghosts ; 
The  Princess  with  her  monstrous  woman-j^uard, 
The  Jest  and  earnest  working  side  by  side. 
The  cataract  and  the  tumult  and  the  kings 
Were  shadows;  and  the  long  fantastic  night 
With  all  its  doings  had  and  bad  not  been, 
And  all  things  were  and  were  not. 

This  went  by 
As  strangely  as  it  came,  and  on  my  spirits 
Settled  a  gentle  cloud  of  melancholy  ; 
Not  long;  I  shook  it  off;  for  spite  of  doubts 
And  sudden  ghostly  shadowlngs  I  was  one 
To  whom  the  touch  of  all  mischance  but  came 
As  night  to  him  that  sitting  on  a  hill 
Sees  the  midsummer,  midnight,  Norway  sun 
Set  into  sunrise :  then  we  moved  away. 


Thy  voice  is  heard  thro'  rolling  dmms. 

That  beat  to  battle  where  be  stands; 
Thy  fSue  across  his  fancy  come^ 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands  : 
A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow. 

He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee ; 
The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe. 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 

So  Lllia  sang:  we  thought  her  half-poesess'd, 
She  struck  such  warbling  fury  thru'  the  words; 
And,  after,  feigning  pique  at  what  she  cali'd 
The  raillery,  or  grotesque,  or  false  sublime — 
Like  one  that  wishes  at  a  dance  to  change 
The  music — clapt  her  bands  and  cried  for  war, 
Or  some  grand  fight  to  kill  and  make  an  end: 
And  he  that  next  inherited  the  tale 
Half  turning  to  the  broken  statue  said, 
"  Sir  Ralph  has  got  your  colors :  if  I  prove 
Your  knight,  and  fight  your  battle,  what  for  me?" 
It  chanced,  her  empty  glove  npon  the  tomb 
Lay  by  her  like  a  model  of  her  hand. 
She  took  it  and  she  flung  it.    "  Fight,"  she  said, 
"  And  make  us  all  we  would  be,  great  and  good." 
He  knigfatlike  in  his  cap  instead  uf  casque, 
A  cap  of  Tyrol  borrow'd  from  the  hall. 
Arranged  the  favor,  and  assumed  the  Prince. 


Now,  scarce  three  paces  measured  from  the  mound. 

We  stnmbled  on  a  stationary  voice. 

And  "  Stand,  who  goes  ?"  "  Two  firom  the  palace,"  L 


"Th«  iMOQd  two:  tbey  wtlti'*  b«  aald,  "paaa  ooi 
Ula  HlgbiMw  wakMt"  and  om,  thatelaah'd  in  annii, 
By  gHnuaeriiif  lanea  and  walls  of  euvaa,  tod 
Threadlog  the  soldier^ity,  till  we  baard 
The  drowsy  folds  of  our  great  enslgii  abake 
Prom  blason'd  lions  o'er  the  imperial  tent 
Whiapera  of  war. 

Entering,  the  sndden  light 
Dated  ma  half-blind :  I  stood  and  seem'd  to  haar, 
As  In  a  poplar  grove  when  a  light  wind  wakea 
A  lisping  of  the  innumerons  leaf  and  dies. 
Each  biasing  in  his  neighbor's  ear;  and  then 
A  strangled  titter,  out  of  which  there  brake 
On  all  sides,  elamoring  etiquette  to  death. 
Unmeasured  mirth :  while  now  the  two  old  kings 
Began  to  wag  tbeir  baldness  up  and  down, 
The  tnth  yoong  captalna  llash'd  their  glittering  teeth, 
The  huge  bush-bearded  Barons  heaved  and  blew, 
And  slain  with  laughter  roii'd  the  gilded  Squire. 

At  length  my  Sire,  his  rough  cheek  wet  with  tears. 
Panted  trom  weary  sides,  "King,  yon  are  free! 
We  did  but  keep  yon  surety  for  our  son. 
If  this  be  he,— or  a  draggled  mawkin,  thou. 
That  tends  her  bristled  gmntera  in  the  sludge :" 
For  I  was  drench'd  with  ooze,  and  torn  with  briers, 
More  crumpled  than  a  |>oppy  f^om  the  sheath, 
And  all  one  rag,  di^priiiced  from  head  to  heel. 
Then  some  one  sent  beneath  his  vaulted  palm 
A  whisper'd  Jest  to  aome  one  near  him  "  Look, 
He  has  been  among  bis  shadows."    "  Satan  take 
The  old  women  and  their  shadows  ]  (thus  the  King 
Roar'd)  make  yourself  a  man  to  fight  with  men. 
Go:  Cyril  told  us  all." 

As  boys  that  slink 
From  ferule  and  the  trespass-chiding  eye, 
Away  we  stole,  and  transient  in  a  trice 
From  what  was  left  of  faded  woman-slough 
To  sheathing  splendors  and  the  golden  scale 
Of  harness,  issued  in  the  sun,  that  now 
Leapt  from  the  dewy  shoulders  of  the  Earth, 
And  hit  the  northern  hills.    Here  Cyril  met  n^ 
A  little  shy  at  first,  but  by  and  by 
We  twain,  with  mutual  pardon  ask'd  and  given 
For  stroke  and  song,  resoldor'd  peace,  whereon 
Follow'd  his  tale.    Amazed  he  fled  away 
Thro'  the  dark  land,  and  later  in  the  night 
Had  come  on  Psycho  weeping:  "then  we  fell 
Into  your  father's  hand,  and  there  she  lies, 
Bnt  will  not  speak,  nor  stir." 

He  sbow'd  a  tent 
A  stone-shot  off:  we  enter'd  in,  and  there 
Among  piled  arms  and  rough  accontrcments, 
Pitiful  sight,  wrapt  in  a  soldier's  cloalc. 
Like  some  sweet  sculpture  draped  trom  head  to  foot, 
And  pnsh'd  by  rude  hands  from  its  pedestal. 
All  her  fair  length  upon  the  ground  she  lay: 
And  at  her  head  a  follower  of  the  camp, 
A  charr'd  and  wrinkled  piece  of  womanhood. 
Sat  watching  like  a  watcher  by  the  dead. 

Then  Florian  knelt,  and  "Come,"  he  whisper'd  to 
her, 
"  Lift  up  your  head,  sweet  sister :  lie  not  thus. 
What  have  you  done,  but  right  f  yon  could  not  alay 
Me,  nor  your  prince :  look  up :  be  comforted : 
Sweet  is  it  to  have  done  the  thing  one  ought. 
When  fall'n  in  darker  ways."    And  likewise  I  : 
"  Be  comforted :  have  I  not  lost  her  too, 
In  whose  least  act  abides  the  nameless  charm 
That  none  has  else  for  me  f    She  heard,  she  moved. 
She  moan'd,  a  folded  voice :  and  up  she  sat, 
And  raised  the  cloak  fW>m  brows  as  pale  and  smooth 
As  those  that  mourn  half-shrouded  over  death 
In  deathless  marble.    "  Her,"  she  said,  "  my  friend— 
Paned  fitjm  her — betray'd  her  cause  snd  mine — 
Where  shall  I  breathe  T  why  kept  ye  not  your  faith  ? 
O  base  and  bad  I  what  comfort  ?  none  for  me '." 
To  whom  remorseful  Cyril,  "  Yet  I  pray 


96 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


Take  comfort :  live,  dear  lady,  for  yotir  child !" 
At  which  8he  lifted  up  her  voice  and  cried. 

"Ah  rae,  my  babe,  my  blossom,  ah  my  child, 
My  one  swreet  child,  whom  I  shall  see  no  more ! 
For  now  will  cruel  Ida  keep  her  back; 
And  either  she  will  die  for  want  of  care. 
Or  sicken  with  HI  usage,  when  they  say 
The  child  Is  hers— for  every  little  fault. 
The  child  is  hers ;  and  they  will  beat  my  girl 
Remembering  her  mother:  O  my  flower  I 
Or  they  will  take  her,  they  will  make  her  bard, 
And  she  will  pass  me  by  in  after-life 
With  some  cold  reverence  worse  than  were  she  dead. 
Ill  mother  that  I  was  to  leave  her  there, 
To  lag  behind,  scared  by  the  cry  they  made, 
The  horror  of  the  shame  among  them  all : 
But  I  will  go  and  sit  beside  the  doors, 
And  make  a  wild  petition  night  and  day, 
Until  they  hate  to  hear  me  like  a  wind 
Walling  forever,  till  they  open  to  me, 
And  lay  my  little  blossom  at  my  feet, 
Hy  babe,  my  sweet  Aglaia,  my  one  child : 
And  I  will  take  her  up  and  go  my  way, 
And  satisfy  my  soul  with  kissing  her : 
Ah !  what  might  that  man  not  deserve  of  me. 
Who  gave  me  back  my  child?"    "Be  comforted," 
Said  Cyril,  "you  shall  have  it,"  but  again 
She  veil'd  her  brows,  and  pron«  she  aank,  and  so 
Like  tender  things  that  being  canght  feign  death. 
Spoke  not,  nor  stirr'dL 

By  this  a  murmur  ran 
Thro'  all  the  camp  and  inward  raced  the  scouts 
With  rumor  of  Prince  Arac  hard  at  band. 
We  left  her  l>y  the  woman,  and  Mrltbout 
Found  the  gray  kings  at  parle:  and  "Look  yon," 

cried 
My  father,  "  that  our  compact  be  fulflll'd 
You  have  spoilt  this  child ;  she  laughs  at  yon  and 

man : 
She  wrongs  herself,  her  sex,  and  me,  and  him: 
Bat  red-faced  war  has  rods  of  steel  and  flre ; 
She  yields,  or  war." 

Then  Oama  tum'd  to  me: 
"We  fear,  indeed,  yon  spent  a  stormy  time 
With  our  strange  girl :  and  yet  they  say  that  still 
You  love  her.    Give  us,  then,  your  mind  at  large : 
How  say  yoa,  war  or  not?" 

"  Not  war.  If  poaaible, 

0  king,"  I  said,  "lest  from  the  abuse  of  war. 
The  desecrated  shrine,  the  trampled  year, 

The  smouldering  homestead,  and  the  household  flower 
Tom  from  the  lintel — all  the  common  wrong — 
A  smoke  go  up  thro'  which  I  loom  to  her 
Three  times  a  monster:  now  she  lightens  scorn 
At  him  that  mars  her  plan,  but  then  would  bate 
(And  every  voice  she  talk'd  with  ratify  It, 
And  every  face  she  look'd  on  justify  it) 
The  general  foe.    More  soluble  is  this  knot. 
By  gentleness  than  war.    I  want  her  love. 
What  were  I  ulgher  this  altho*  we  dash'd 
Your  cities  Into  shards  with  catapults. 
She  would  not  love ; — or  brought  her  chain'd,  a  slave. 
The  lifting  of  whose  eyelash  Is  my  lord. 
Not  ever  would  she  love;  but  brooding  turn 
The  book  of  scorn  till  all  my  little  chance 
Were  caught  within  the  record  of  her  wrongs, 
And  cnish'd  to  death :  and  rather,  Sire,  than  this 

1  would  the  old  god  of  war  himself  were  dead, 
Forgotten,  rusting  on  his  iron  hills. 

Rotting  on  some  wild  shore  with  ribs  of  wreck. 
Or  like  an  old-world  mammoth  bulk'd  in  ice. 
Not  to  be  molten  out." 

And  roughly  spake 
My  father,  "Tut,  you  know  them  not,  the  girls. 
Boy,  when  I  hear  you  prate  I  almost  think 
That  idiot  legend  credible.    Look  yon.  Sir ! 
Man  is  the  hunter;  woman  is  his  game: 


The  sleek  and  shining  creatures  of  the  chase. 
We  hunt  them  for  the  beauty  of  their  skins ; 
They  love  us  for  it,  and  we  ride  them  down. 
Wheedling  and  siding  with  them  !    Out !  for  shame  ! 
Boy,  there's  no  rose  that's  half  so  dear  to  them 
As  he  that  does  the  thing  they  dare  not  do. 
Breathing  and  sounding  beauteous  battle,  comes 
With  the  air  of  the  trumpet  round  him,  and  leaps  In 
Among  the  women,  snares  them  by  the  score 
Flatter'd  and  fluster'd,  wins,  though  dash'd  with  death 
He  reddens  what  he  kisses:  thus  I  won 
Your  mother,  a  good  mother,  a  good  wife, 
Worth  winning;  but  this  firebrand— gentleness 
To  such  as  her !  If  Cyril  spake  her  true, 
To  catch  a  dragon  In  a  cherry  net. 
To  trip  a  tigress  with  a  gossamer, 
Were  wisdom  to  It" 

"  Yea,  bat  Sire,"  I  cried, 
"  Wild  natores  need  wise  curbs.    The  soldier  ?  No ; 
What  dares  not  Ida  do  that  she  should  prize 
The  soldier?    I  beheld  her,  when  she  rose 
The  yester-night,  and  storming  in  extremes 
Stood  for  her  cause,  and  flung  defiance  down 
Gagelike  to  man,  and  had  not  shunn'd  the  death. 
No,  not  the  soldier's :  yet  I  hold  her,  king. 
True  woman:  bat  you  clash  them  all  In  one. 
That  have  as  many  differences  as  we. 
The  violet  varies  from  the  lily  as  far 
As  oak  flrom  elm :  one  loves  the  soldier,  one 
The  silken  priest  of  peace,  one  this,  one  that. 
And  some  unworthily;  their  sinless  faltb, 
A  maiden  moon  that  sparkles  on  a  sty. 
Glorifying  clown  and  satyr;  whence  they  need 
More  breadth  of  culture:  Is  not  Ida  right? 
They  worth  It?  truer  to  the  law  within? 
Severer  in  the  logic  of  a  life  ? 
Twice  as  magnetic  to  sweet  influences 
Of  earth  and  heaven  ?  and  she  of  whom  yon  speak, 
Mymother,  looks  as  whole  as  some  serene 
Creation  minted  in  the  golden  moods 
Of  sovereign  artists ;  not  a  thought,  a  touch. 
But  pure  as  lines  of  green  that  streak  the  white 
Of  the  first  snowdrop's  inner  leaves ;  I  say. 
Not  like  the  piebald  miscellany,  man. 
Bursts  of  great  heart  and  slips  in  sensaal  mire, 
But  wbole  and  one:  and  take  them  all-in-all. 
Were  we  ourselves  but  half  as  good,  as  kind, 
As  truthful,  much  that  Ida  claims  as  right 
Had  ne'er  been  mooted,  but  as  frankly  theirs 
As  dues  of  Natriiv.    To  our  point:  not  war: 
Least  I  lose  alL" 

"  Nay,  nay,  yon  spake  but  sense," 
Said  Gama.    "We  remember  love  ourselves 
lu  our  sweet  youth ;  we  did  not  rate  him  then 
This  red-hot  Iron  to  be  shaped  with  blows. 
Yon  talk  almost  like  Ida :  the  can  talk ; 
And  there  is  something  in  it  as  yon  say: 
But  you  talk  kindlier:  we  esteem  you  for  it- 
He  seems  a  gracious  and  a  gallant  Prince, 
I  wonld  he  had  our  daughter:  for  the  rest 
Our  own  detention,  why  the  causes  welgh'd. 
Fatherly  fears— you  used  us  courteously- 
We  would  do  much  to  gratify  your  Prince— 
We  pardon  It ;  and  for  your  Ingress  here 
Upon  the  skirt  and  fWnge  of  our  fair  land. 
Yon  did  but  come  as  goblins  in  the  night 
Nor  In  the  furrow  broke  the  ploughman's  head, 
Nor  burnt  the  grange,  nor  bnss'd  the  milkingmald, 
Nor  robb'd  the  farmer  of  his  bowl  of  cream : 
But  let  your  Prince  (our  royal  word  upon  it, 
He  comes  back  safe)  ride  with  us  to  our  lines, 
And  speak  with  Arac:  Arac's  word  is  thrice 
As  ours  with  Ida:  something  may  be  done— 
I  know  not  what — and  ours  shall  see  us  friends. 
You,  likewise,  our  late  guest*.  If  so  you  will, 
Follow  us:  who  knows?  we  four  may  build  some 

plan 
Foursquare  to  opposition." 


TllK  i'lUNCBSS:  A  MEliLKY. 


»7 


Hera  he  raadk'd 
White  haiid*  of  Ihrawell  to  my  iiro,  who  growl'd 
Ad  auawer  which,  half-muflled  In  hU  betid, 
Let  so  much  oat  u  gave  u  leave  to  go. 

Then  rode  we  with  the  old  king  acroee  the  lawn* 
B«ncHih  huge  tree*,  a  thonaand  riuK*  of  Spring 
In  every  bole,  a  »ong  on  every  apray 
Of  bInU  that  pl|MHl  ihcir  Valentlnea,  and  woke 
Dealn*  lu  nic  to  iiinioo  my  tale  of  luTe 
In  the  old  kiuK'ii  cans  who  promlaed  help,  and  ooMd 
All  o'er  with  hunoy'd  answer  aa  we  rode; 
And  bloMom-flragraut  alipt  the  heavy  dewa 
Oather'd  by  night  and  peace,  with  each  light  air 
On  our  mail'd  heads :  but  other  thoughU  than  Peace 
Bamt  in  as,  when  we  saw  the  embattled  aqoares. 
And  aqnadroDB  of  the  Prince,  tmmpUng  the  flowers 
With  clamor:  for  among  them  rose  a  cry 
Aa  if  to  greet  the  king :  Ihcy  made  n  halt; 
nte  horsea  yell'd ;  tliey  cl.i»h'd  their  arms ;  the  drum 
Beat ;  merrUy-blowii)];  ohrili'd  the  martial  flfo ; 
And  lu  the  blast  and  bray  of  the  long  bom 
And  serpent-throated  bugle,  undulated 
The  banner:  anon  to  meet  uh  li);htly  pranced 
Three  captains  out ;  nor  ever  hnd  I  secu 
Such  thews  of  men :  the  mldmont  and  the  highest 
Was  Arac:  all  about  his  motion  clung 
The  shadow  of  his  sister,  as  the  beam 
Of  the  East,  that  play'd  upon  them,  made  them  glance 
Like  thoee  three  stars  uf  the  airy  (iinnt's  zone, 
That  glitter  bumish'd  by  the  n-oHty  dark ; 
And  as  the  flery  Sirius  alters  hue. 
And  bickers  into  red  and  emerald,  shone 
Their  morions,  wash'd  with  morning,  as  they  came. 

And  I  that  prated  peace,  when  first  I  heard 
War-music,  felt  the  blind  wildbcast  of  force. 
Whose  home  is  in  the  sinews  of  a  man, 
Stir  in  me  as  to  strike:  then  took  the  king 
His  three  broad  sous;  with  now  a  wandering  hand 
And  now  a  pointed  finger,  told  them  all: 
A  common  light  of  smiles  at  our  disguise 
Broke  fh>m  their  lips,  and,  ere  the  windy  Jest 
Had  labor'd  down  within  bis  ample  lungs. 
The  genial  giant,  Arac,  roll'd  himself 
Thrice  in  the  saddle,  then  burst  out  in  words. 

"Our  land  invaded,  'sdeatb !  and  he  himself 
Your  captive,  yet  my  father  wills  not  war: 
And,  'sdeatb !  myself,  what  care  I,  war  or  no  T 
But  then  this  question  of  your  troth  remains : 
And  there  's  a  downright  honest  meaning  in  her; 
She  flies  too  high,  she  flies  too  high !  and  yet 
She  ask'd  but  space  and  (iairplay  for  her  scheme: 
She  prest  and  prest  it  on  m&— I  myself; 
What  know  I  of  these  things  1  but,  life  and  sonl ! 
I  thought  her  half-right  talking  of  her  wrongs : 
I  say  she  flies  too  high,  'sdeatb  1  what  of  that  ? 
I  take  her  for  the  flower  of  womankind, 
And  so  I  often  told  her,  right  or  wrong. 
And,  Prince,  she  can  he  sweet  to  those  she  loves, 
And,  right  or  wrong,  I  care  not:  this  is  all, 
I  stand  upon  her  side :  she  made  me  swear  it — 
'Sdeatb, — and  with  solemn  rites  by  candlelight — 
Swear  by  St.  something— I  forget  her  name — 
Uer  that  talk'd  down  the  fifty  wisest  men: 
She  was  a  princess  too;  and  so  I  swore. 
Come,  this  is  all ;  she  will  not :  waive  your  claim, 
If  not,  the  foughten  field,  what  else,  at  once 
Decides  it,  'sdeatb !  against  my  father's  wIlL" 

I  lagg'd  in  answer  loath  to  render  up 
My  precontract,  and  loath  by  brainless  war 
To  cleave  the  rift  of  diiference  deeper  yet; 
Till  one  of  those  two  brothers,  half  aside 
And  fingering  at  the  hair  about  bis  lip. 
To  prick  ns  on  to  combat  "Like  to  like! 
The  woman's  garment  hid  the  woman's  heart" 
7 


A  Uunt  that  dench'd  hla  porpoae  like  a  blow  1 
For  fiery-abort  was  Cyril's  ooantor-acoff, 
And  sharp  I  answer'd,  touch'd  upon  the  point 
Whera  Idle  boya  ara  cowards  to  their  ahane, 
"  Oeddo  it  here:  why  notf  we  are  tlirM  to  thrte." 

Then  spake  the  third,  "But  three  to  three t  u<' 
morar 
So  more,  and  in  our  noble  niHtor'a  cansef 
More,  mora,  for  bimor:  every  uiptain  waits 
Hungry  tor  honor,  angry  fur  hiH  king. 
More,  more,  some  fifty  on  a  side,  that  each 
May  breathe  himself,  and  quick !  by  overthrow 
Of  these  or  those,  the  question  settled  die." 

"Tea,"  answer'd  I,  "for  this  wild  wreath  of  air, 
This  fiake  of  rainbow  flying  on  the  highest 
Foam  of  men's  deeda— thia  honor,  if  ye  will 
It  ncedit  muvt  be  fur  honor  if  at  all : 
Since,  what  deci8ton  7  If  we  thil,  we  fail, 
And  if  wo  win,  we  fail:  she  would  -not  keep 
Her  compact."    "'SdeathI  but  we  will  send  to  her," 
Said  Arac,  "worthy  reasons  why  she  should 
Bide  by  this  issue :  let  our  missive  thro', 
And  you  shall  have  her  answer  by  the  word.' 

"  Boys !"  shriek'd  the  old  king,  bnt  vatnller  than 
a  hen 
To  her  iklse  daoghters  in  the  pool ;  for  none 
Hoarded;  neither  seem'd  there  mora  to  say: 
Back  rode  we  to  my  Cither's  camp,  and  found 
He  thrice  had  sent  a  herald  to  the  gates. 
To  learn  if  Ida  yet  would  cede  our  claim. 
Or  by  denial  flush  her  babbling  wells 
With  her  own  people's  life:  three  times  he  went: 
The  first,  he  blew  and  blew,  but  none  appear'd: 
He  batter'd  at  the  doors;  none  came:  the  next. 
An  awful  voice  within  had  wam'd  him  thence: 
The  third,  and  those  eight  daughters  of  the  plough 
Came  sallyiug  thro'  the  gates,  and  caught  his  hair, 
And  so  belabor'd  him  on  rib  and  cheek 
They  made  him  wild :  not  less  one  glance  he  caught 
Thro'  open  doors  of  Ida  station'd  there 
Unshaken,  clinging  to  her  purpose,  firm 
Tho'  compass'd  by  two  armies  and  the  noise 
Of  arms ;  and.  standing  like  a  stately  Pine 
Set  in  a  cataract  on  an  island-crag, 
When  storm  is  on  the  heights,  and  right  and  left 
Suck'd  from  the  dark  heart  of  the  long  hills  roll 
The  torrent*,  dash'd  to  the  vole:  and  yet  her  will 
Bred  will  in  me  to  overcome  it  or  foil. 

But  when  I  told  the  king  that  I  was  pledged 
To  fight  in  tourney  for  my  bride,  he  clash'd 
His  iron  palms  together  with  a  cry ; 
Himself  would  tilt  it  out  among  the  lads : 
But  overborne  by  all  his  bearded  lords 
With  reasons  drawn  ft-om  age  and  state,  perforce 
He  yielded,  wroth  and  red,  with  fierce  demur: 
And  many  a  bold  knight  started  up  in  heat. 
And  aware  to  combat  for  my  claim  till  death. 

All  on  this  side  the  palace  ran  the  field 
Flat  to  the  garden  wall:  and  likewise  here, 
Above  the  garden's  glowing  blossom-belts, 
A  coltmin'd  entry  shone  and  marble  stairs, 
And  great  bronze  valves,  emboss'd  with  Tomyri^ 
And  what  she  did  to  Cyrus  after  fight. 
But  now  fast  barr'd:  so  here  upon  the  flat 
All  that  long  mom  the  lists  were  hammcr'd  up. 
And  all  that  mom  the  heralds  to  and  fro. 
With  message  and  defiance,  went  and  came ; 
Last,  Ida's  answer,  in  a  royal  hand, 
But  shaken  here  and  there,  and  rolling  words 
Oration-like.    I  kiss'd  it  and  I  read. 

"  O  brother,  yon  have  known  the  pangs  we  felt. 
What  heats  of  indignation  when  we  heard 


98 


THE  PRLNCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


Of  those  that  iron-cramp'd  their  women's  feet ; 

Of  lands  in  which  at  the  altar  the  poor  bride 

Gives  her  harsh  groom  for  bridal-gift  a  scourge ; 

Of  living  hearts  that  crack  within  the  Are 

Where  smoulder  their  dead  despots;  and  of  thoae,— 

Mothers,— that,  all  prophetic  pity,  fling 

Their  pretty  maids  in  the  running  flood,  and  swoops 

The  vulture,  beak  and  talon,  at  the  heart 

Made  for  all  noble  motion:  and  I  saw 

That  equal  baseness  lived  in  sleeker  times 

With  smoother  men :  the  old  leaven  leaven'd  all : 

Millions  of  throats  would  bawl  for  civil  rights, 

No  woman  named:  therefore  I  set  my  fkce 

Against  all  men,  and  lived  but  for  mine  own. 

Far  off  from  men  I  built  a  fold  for  them : 

I  stored  it  full  of  rich  memorial : 

I  fenced  it  round  with  gallant  institutes, 

And  biting  laws  to  scare  the  beasts  of  prey. 

And  profper'd;  till  a  rout  of  saucy  boys 

Brake  on  us  at  our  books,  and  marr'd  our  peace, 

Mask'd  like  our  maids,  blustering  I  know  not  what 

Of  insolence  and  love,  some  pretext  held 

Of  baby  troth,  invalid,  since  my  will 

Seal'd  not  the  bond— the  striplings  '.—for  their  sport! — 

I  tamed  my  leopards:  shall  I  not  tame  these t 

Or  you  f  or  I  ?  for  since  you  think  me  toucb'd 

In  honor— what,  I  would  not  aught  of  false— 

Is  not  our  cause  puref  and  whereas  I  know 

Tour  prowess.  Arse,  and  what  mother's  blood 

You  draw  from,  fight;  you  failing,  I  abide 

What  end  soever:  fail  yon  will  not.    Still 

Take  not  his  life:  he  risk'd  it  for  my  own; 

His  mother  lives :  yet  whatsoe'er  you  do. 

Fight  and  flght  well ;  strike  and  strike  home.    Odear 

Brothers,  the  woman's  Angel  guards  yon,  yon 

The  sole  men  to  be  mingled  with  our  cause. 

The  sole  men  we  shall  prize  in  the  after-time. 

Your  very  armor  hallow'd,  and  your  statnes 

Rear'd,  sung  to,  when  this  gad-fly  brosh'd  aside. 

We  plant  a  solid  foot  into  the  Time, 

And  mould  a  generation  strong  to  move 

With  claim  on  claim  from  right  to  right,  till  she 

Whose  name  is  yoked  with  children's,  know  herself; 

And  Knowledge  in  our  own  land  make  her  free. 

And,  ever  following  those  two  crowned  twins, 

Commerce  and  conquest,  shower  the  ifiery  grain 

Of  freedom  broadcast  over  all  that  orbs 

Between  the  Northern  and  the  Southern  mom." 

Then  came  a  postcrlpt  dash'd  across  the  rest 
"  See  that  there  be  no  traitors  in  your  camp : 
We  seem  a  nest  of  traitors— none  to  trust : 
Since  our  arms  fail'd— this  Egypt  plague  of  men  ! 
Almost  our  maids  were  better  at  their  homes. 
Than  thus  man-girdled  here:  indeed  I  think 
Our  chiefest  comfort  is  the  little  child 
Of  one  unworthy  mother ;  which  she  left : 
She  shall  not  have  it  back :  the  child  shall  grow 
To  prize  the  authentic  mother  of  her  mind. 
I  took  it  for  an  hour  in  mine  own  bed 
This  moniing:  there  the  tender  orphan  hands 
Felt  at  my  heart,  and  seem'd  to  charm  from  thence 
The  wrath  I  nursed  against  the  world :  farewelL" 

I  ceased ;  he  said :  "  Stubborn,  but  she  may  sit 
Upon  a  king's  right  hand  in  thunder-storms, 
.\nd  breed  up  warriors !    See  now,  tho'  yourself 
Be  dazzled  by  the  wildfire  Love  to  sloughs 
That  swallow  common  sense,  the  spindling  king. 
This  Gama  swamp'd  in  lazy  tolerance. 
When  the  man  wants  weight,  the  woman  takes  it  up. 
And  topples  down  the  scales ;  but  this  is  flxt 
As  are  the  roots  of  earth  and  base  of  all ; 
Man  for  the  field  and  woman  for  the  hearth; 
Man  for  the  sword  and  for  the  needle  she: 
Man  with  the  head  and  woman  with  the  heart: 
Man  to  command  and  woman  to  obey ; 


All  else  confusion.    Look  you !  the  gray  mare 
Is  ill  to  live  with,  when  her  whinny  shrills 
From  tile  to  scullery,  aud  her  small  goodman 
Shrinks  in  his  arm-chair  while  the  fires  of  Hell 
Mix  with  his  hearth:  but  you — she's  yet  a  colt- 
Take,  break  her :  strongly  groom'd  and  straitly  curb'd 
She  might  not  rank  with  those  detestable 
That  let  the  bantling  scald  at  home,  aud  brawl 
Their  rights  or  wrongs  like  potherbs  in  the  street. 
They  say  she's  comely ;  there's  the  fairer  chance : 
/  like  her  none  the  less  for  rating  at  her ! 
Besides,  the  woman  wed  is  not  as  we. 
But  suffers  change  of  frame.    A  lusty  brace 
Of  twins  may  weed  her  of  her  folly.    Boy, 
The  bearing  and  the  training  of  a  child 
Is  woman's  wisdom." 

Thus  the  hard  old  king: 
I  took  my  leave,  for  it  was  nearly  noon : 
I  pored  upon  her  letter  which  I  held, 
And  on  the  little  clause  "take  not  his  life:" 
I  mused  on  that  wild  morning  in  the  woods. 
And  on  the  "  Follow,  follow,  thou  shalt  win :" 
I  thought  on  all  the  wrathful  king  had  said, 
And  how  the  strange  betrothraent  was  to  end: 
Then  I  remember'd  that  burnt  sorcerer's  curse 
That  one  should  fight  with  shadows  and  should  Call ; 
And  like  a  flash  the  weird  affection  came: 
King,  camp  and  college  tum'd  to  hollow  shows; 
I  seem'd  to  move  in  old  memorial  tilts. 
And  doing  battle  with  forgotten  ghosts, 
To  dream  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream : 
And  ere  I  woke  it  was  the  point  of  noon. 
The  lists  were  ready.    Empanoplied  and  plumed 
We  euter'd  in,  and  waited,  fifty  there 
Opposed  to  fifty,  tilt  the  trumpet  blared 
At  the  barrier  like  a  wild  bom  in  a  land 
Of  echoes,  and  a  moment,  and  once  more 
The  trumpet,  and  again :  at  which  the  storm 
or  galloping  hoofiB  bare  on  the  ridge  of  spears 
And  ridera  front  to  tiront,  until  they  closed 
In  conflict  with  the  crash  of  shivering  points. 
And  thunder.    Yet  It  seem'd  a  dream ;  I  dreom'd 
Of  fighting.    On  his  baonches  rose  the  steed. 
And  into  fiery  splinters  leapt  the  lance. 
And  out  of  stricken  helmets  sprang  the  fire. 
A  noble  dream !  what  was  it  else  I  saw  1 
Part  sat  like  rocks ;  part  reel'd  but  kept  their  seats ; 
Part  roll'd  on  the  earth  and  rose  again  and  drew: 
Part  stumbled  mixt  with  floundering  horses.    Down 
From  those  two  bulks  at  Arac's  side,  and  down 
From  Arac's  arm,  as  from  a  giant's  fiail, 
The  large  blows  rain'd,  as  here  aud  everywhere 
He  rode  the  mellay,  lord  of  the  ringing  lists. 
And    all    the    plain— brand,  mace,  and   shaft,  and 

shield— 
Shock'd,  like  an  iron-clanging  anvil  bang'd 
With  hammers ;  till  I  thought,  can  this  be  he 
From  Qama's  dwarfish  loins  r  If  ttiis  be  so, 
The  mother  makes  us  most — and  in  my  dream 
I  glanced  aside,  and  saw  the  palace-front 
Alive  with  fluttering  scarfs  and  ladies'  eyes. 
And  highest,  among  the  statues,  statue-like. 
Between  a  cymbal'd  Miriam  and  a  Jael, 
With  Psyche's  babe,  was  Ida  watching  us, 
A  single  band  of  gold  about  her  hair. 
Like  a  Saint's  glory  up  in  heaven:  but  she 
No  saint — inexorable— no  tenderness — 
Too  hard,  too  crael :  yet  she  sees  me  fight. 
Yea,  let  her  see  me  Call !  with  that  I  drave 
Among  the  thickest  and  bore  down  a  Prince, 
And  Cyril,  one.    Yea,  let  me  make  my  dream 
All  that  I  would.    But  that  large-moulded  man. 
His  visage  all  ogrin  as  at  a  wake. 
Made  at  me  thro'  the  press,  and,  staggering  back 
With  stroke  on  stroke  the  horse  and  horseman,  come 
As  comes  a  pillar  of  electric  cloud, 
Playing  the  roofs  and  sucking  up  the  drains. 
And  shadowing  down  the  champaign  till  it  strikes 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


09 


On  a  wood,  ud  takw,  and  breaks,  and  eraeka,  and 

sputa, 
And  twists  tbtt  grain  with  such  a  roar  that  Barth 
RmIs,  and  tba  herdstnen  C17 :  for  rvvrythlnc 
OavQ  way  beftMT*  hint :  ouly  Florinn,  he 
Thst  loT«d  me  closer  than  his  own  rl^ht  070, 
Thrtiot  In  between;  but  Amc  hmIv  him  clown t 
And  Ojrrll  seeing  it,  pu«h'cl  «K»li»'t  th<^  Prtnoa, 
With  Psyche's  color  round  his  hflniot,  tuogb, 
Stnmif,  snpple,  sluew-corded,  spt  nt  nrmH ; 
Hut  tongher,  heavier,  stntntcer,  h«  thnt  »raote 
And  threw  htm :  laitt  I  spurr'd ;  1  folt  my  veins 
Stri'tch  with  fierce  heat ;  a  moment  hand  to  hand, 
And  Rword  to  sword,  and  lioryc  to  horse  we  hunu:. 
Till  I  utruek  ont  and  iihoutpd:  (he  blade  glanced: 
1  did  but  shear  a  featlier,  and  dream  and  tmth 
Flow'd  fh>m  mo ;  darkness  closed  me ;  and  I  Toll. 

Home  they  broujjht  her  warrior  dead : 
She  nor  swoon 'd,  nor  otter'd  cry: 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
"She  most  weep  or  she  will  die." 

Then  they  pmiscd  him,  8oft  and  low, 

Call'd  him  worthy  to  be  loved. 
Truest  ft-iend  and  noblest  foe ; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  (h>m  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  slept. 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years. 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee- 
Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears — 

"  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 

VI. 
Mt  dream  had  never  died  or  lived  again. 
As  in  some  mystic  middle  state  I  lay 
Seeing  I  saw  not,  hearing  not  I  heard : 
Tho',  If  I  saw  not,  yet  they  told  me  all 
do  often  that  I  spake  as  having  seen. 

For  so  it  seem'd,  or  so  they  said  to  me. 
That  all  things  grew  more  tragic  and  more  strange : 
That  when  our  side  was  vanquish'd  and  my  cause 
Forever  lost,  there  went  up  a  great  cry, 
The  Prince  is  slain.    My  father  heard  and  ran 
In  on  the  lists,  and  there  nniaced  my  casque 
And  grovell'd  on  my  body,  and  after  him 
Came  Psyche,  sorrowing  for  Aglaia. 

Bat  high  upon  the  palace  Ida  stood 
With  Psyche's  babe  in  arm :  there  on  the  roofs 
Like  that  great  dame  of  Lapidoth  she  sang. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fail'D,  have  fall'n  ;  the  seed 
The  little  seed  they  Inugh'd  at  in  the  dark, 
Has  risen  and  cleft  the  soil,  and  grown  a  bulk 
Of  spanless  girth,  that  lays  on  every  side 
A  thousand  arms  and  mshes  to  the  Sun. 

"  Onr  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n :  they  came : 
The  leaves  were  wet  with  women's  tears :  they  beard 
A  noise  of  songs  they  wouid  not  understand : 
Tbey  mark'd  it  with  the  red  cross  to  the  fall, 
And  would  have  strowu  It,  and  are  fall'n  themselves. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n :  they  came, 
The  woodmen  with  their  axes :  lo  the  tree  I 
But  we  will  make  it  fagots  for  the  hearth, 
And  shape  it  plank  and  beam  for  roof  and  floor. 
And  boats  and  bridges  for  the  use  of  men. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n :  they  stmck ; 
With  their  own   blows  they  hurt  themselves,  nor 
knew 


There  dwelt  an  Iron  natnre  in  the  Rmin ; 
The  Klltterlng  aze  was  bn>kpn  In  their  anoa. 
Their  arms  were  shattcr'd  to  the  shoulder  blade. 

"  Onr  enemies  have  fkll'n,  but  this  shall  ftrow 
A  night  of  Summer  fh>ra  the  heat,  a  breadth 
Of  .\utunui,  dropping  fruits  of  |>owcr  ;  nnd  roli'd 
With  music  ill  tho  );rowlng  breeu)  of  Time, 
I'he  tope  shall  strike  from  sUr  to  star,  the  (knga 
Shall  more  the  stony  bases  of  tho  world. 

"  And  now,  O  maids,  behold  onr  sanctuary 
Is  violate,  onr  laws  broken :  fear  we  not 
To  break  them  more  in  their  behoof,  whose  arms 
t'hampion'd  our  cause  and  won  it  with  a  day 
ninnch'd  hi  our  annals,  and  perpetual  feast, 
When  (ianioH  nnd  heroines  of  the  golden  year 
Shall  strip  A  hundred  hollows  bare  of  Spring, 
To  rain  an  April  of  ovation  round 
Their  statues,  borne  aloft,  the  three :  but  come. 
We  will  be  liberal,  since  our  riuhts  are  won. 
Let  them  not  He  in  tliu  tciits  with  coarse  mankind, 
111  nurses ;  but  descend,  and  proflTer  these 
The  brethren  of  our  blood  and  cause,  that  there 
Lie  bruised  and  maim'd,  the  tender  ministries 
Of  female  hands  and  hospitality." 

She  spoke,  and  with  the  babe  yet  in  her  arms. 
Descending,  burst  the  great  bronze  valves,  and  led 
A  hundred  maids  in  train  across  the  Park. 
Some  cowl'd,  and  some  bare-headed,  on  they  came, 
Their  feet  in  flowers,  her  loveliest :  by  them  went 
The  enamor'd  air  sighing,  and  tfn  their  curls 
From  the  high  tree  the  blossom  wavering  fell. 
And  over  them  the  tremulous  isles  of  light, 
Slided,  they  moving  under  shade  :  but  Blanche 
At  distance  follow'd:  so  they  came:  anon 
Thro'  open  field  into  the  lists  they  wound 
Timorously ;  and  as  the  leader  of  the  herd 
That  holds  a  stately  fretwork  to  the  Sun, 
And  follow'd  up  by  a  hundred  airy  does, 
Steps  with  a  tender  foot,  light  as  on  air. 
The  lovely,  lordly  creature  floated  on 
To  where  her  wounded  brethren  lay:  there  stay'd; 
Knelt  on  one  knee,— the  child  on  one, — and  prest 
Their  hands,  and  call'd  them  dear  deliverers. 
And  happy  warriors  and  immortal  names, 
.\nd  said,  "You  shall  not  lie  in  the  tents  but  here, 
And  nursed  by  those  for  whom  yon  fought,  and 

served 
With  female  hands  and  hospitality." 

Then,  whether  moved  by  this,  or  was  it  chance, 
She  past  my  way.    Up  started  from  my  side 
The  old  lion,  glaring  with  his  whelpless  eye, 
;  Silent :  but  when  she  saw  me  lying  stark, 
i  Disheim'd  and  mute,  and  motionlesely  pale, 
I  Cold  ev'n  to  her,  she  sigh'd :  and  when  she  saw 
The  haggard  father's  face  and  reverend  beard 
;  Of  grisly  twine,  all  dabbled  with  the  blood 
Of  his  own  son,  shuddcr'd,  a  twitch  of  pain 
i  Tortured  her  mouth,  and  o'er  her  forehead  past 
!  A  shadow,  and  her  hue  changed,  and  she  said: 
"He  saved  my  life:  my  brother  slew  him  for  if 
No  more :  at  which  the  king  in  bitter  scorn 
Drew  from  my  neck  the  painting  and  the  tress, 
And  held  them  up :  she  saw  them,  and  a  day 
Rose  f^om  the  distance  on  her  memory. 
When  the  good  Queen,  her  mother,  shore  the  tress 
I  With  kisses,  ere  the  days  of  Lady  Blanche : 
i  And  then  once  more  she  look'd  at  my  pale  face: 
:  Till  understanding  all  the  foolish  work 
I  Of  Fancy,  and  the  bitter  close  of  all, 
I  Het  iron  will  was  broken  in  her  mind ; 
Her  noble  heart  was  molten  in  her  breast ; 
She  bow'd,  she  set  the  child  on  the  earth :  she  laid 
A  iL-eliug  finger  on  my  brows,  and  presently 


100 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


"O  Sire,"  8he  said,  "he  lives:  he  is  not  dead: 
O  let  me  have  him  with  my  brethren  here 
In  onr  own  palace:  we  will  tend  on  him 
Like  one  of  these  ;  if  so,  by  any  means, 
To  lighten  this  great  clog  of  thanks,  that  make 
Oar  progress  falter  to  the  vroman's  goal." 

She  said :  but  at  the  happy  word  "  he  lives," 
My  father  stoop'd,  re-father'd  o'er  my  wounds. 
So  those  two  foes  above  my  fallen  life, 
With  brow  to  brow  like  night  and  evening  mixt 
Their  dark  and  gray,  while  Psyche  ever  stole 
A  little  nearer,  till  the  babe  that  by  us, 
Half-lapt  in  glowing  gauze  and  golden  brede, 
Lay  like  a  new-fuU'n  meteor  on  the  grass, 
Uncared  for,  spied  it«  mother  and  began 
A  blind  and  babbling  laughter,  and  to  dance 
Its  body,  and  reach  its  fatling  innocent  arms 
And  lazy  lingering  fingers.    She  the  appeal 
Brook'd  not,  but  clamoring  oat  "  Mine— mine— not 

yours, 
II  Is  not  yours,  but  mine :  give  me  the  child," 
Ceased  all  on  tremble:  piteous  was  the  cry: 
So  stood  the  unhappy  mother  oi)en-mouth'd, 
And  turn'd  each  face  her  way:   wan  was  her  cheek 
With  hollow  watch,  her  bluuming  mantle  torn, 
Red  grief  and  mother's  hunger  in  her  eye. 
And  down  dead-heavy  sank  her  curls,  and  half 
The  sacred  mother's  bosom,  panting,  burst 
The  laces  toward  her  babe ;  but  she  nor  cared 
Nor  knew  it,  clamoring  on,  till  Ida  heard, 
Look'd  up,  and  rising  slowly  from  me,  stood 
Erect  and  silent,  striking  with  her  glance 
The  mother,  me,  the  child ;  bat  he  that  lay 
Beside  us,  Cyril,  batter'd  as  be  was, 
Trail'd  himself  up  on  one  knee:  then  he  drew 
Her  robe  to  meet  his  lips,  and  down  she  lookM 
At  the  arm'd  man  sideways,  pitying,  as  it  seem'd, 
Or  self-involved ;  but  when  she  learnt  bis  Cace, 
Remembering  his  ill-omcn'd  song,  arose 
Once  more  thro'  nil  her  height,  and  o'er  him  grew 
Tall  as  a  tigurc  lengthcn'd  on  the  sand 
When  the  tide  ebbs  in  sunshine,  and  bo  said: 

"O  fair  and  strong  and  terrible!    Ltonen 
That  with  your  long  locks  play  the  Lion's  mane ! 
But  Love  and  Nature,  thefe  are  two  more  terrible 
And  stronger.    Sec,  your  foot  is  on  our  necks. 
We  vanquish'd,  you  the  Victor  of  your  will. 
What  would  you  more?  give  her  the  child!  remain 
Orb'd  in  your  isolation:  he  is  dead. 
Or  all  as  dead :  henceforth  we  let  yon  be: 
Win  you  the  hearts  of  women ;  and  beware 
Lest,  where  you  seek  the  common  love  of  these. 
The  common  hate  with  the  revolving  wheel 
Should  drag  you  down,  and  some  great  Nemesis 
Break  from  a  durken'd  future,  crown'd  with  fire, 
And  tread  you  out  forever:  but  howsoc'er 
Fix'd  in  yourself,  never  in  your  own  arms 
To  hold  your  own,  deny  not  hers  to  her, 
Give  her  the  child !    O  if,  I  say,  you  keep 
One  pulse  that  beats  true  woman,  if  you  loved 
The  breast  that  fed  or  arm  that  dandled  you. 
Or  own  one  part  of  sense  not  flint  to  prayer. 
Give  her  the  child !  or  if  you  scorn  to  lay  it. 
Yourself,  in  hands  so  lately  claspt  with  yours. 
Or  speak  to  her,  your  dearest,  her  one  fault 
The  tenderness,  not  yours,  that  could  not  kill, 
Give  t»«  it ;  I  wUI  give  It  ber." 

He  said: 
At  first  her  eye  with  slow  dilation  roll'd 
Dry  flame,  she  listening :  after  sank  and  sank 
And,  into  mournful  twilight  mellowing,  dwelt 
Full  on  the  child ;  she  took  it :  "  Pretty  bud ! 
Lily  of  the  vale:  half-open'd  bell  of  the  woods!* 
Sole  comfort  of  my  dark  hour,  when  a  world 
Of  traitorous  friend  and  broken  system  made 
No  purple  in  the  distance,  mystery. 


Pledge  of  a  love  not  to  be  mine,  farewell ; 
These  men  are  hard  upon  us  as  of  old, 
We  two  must  part:  and  yet  how  fain  was  I 
To  dream  thy  cause  embraced  in  mine,  to  think 
I  might  be  something  to  thee,  when  I  felt 
Thy  helpless  warmth  about  my  barren  breast 
In  the  dead  prime:  but  may  thy  mother  prove 
As  true  to  thee  as  false,  false,  false  to  me ! 
And,  if  thou  needs  must  bear  the  yoke,  I  wish  it 
Gentle  as  freedom  "—here  she  kissed  it :  then— 
"All  good  go  with  thee!  take  it.  Sir,"  and  so 
Laid  the  soft  babe  in  his  hard-mailed  hands. 
Who  turn'd  half-round  to  Psyche  as  she  sprang 
To  meet  it,  with  an  eye  that  swum  in  thanks ; 
Then  felt  it  sound  and  whole  from  head  to  foot, 
And  hugg'd  and  never  hugg'd  it  close  enough. 
And  in  her  hunger  mouth'd  and  mumbled  it. 
And  hid  her  bosom  with  it;  after  that 
Pat  on  more  calm  and  added  suppliantly: 

"We  two  were  friends:  I  go  to  mine  own  land 
Forever:  find  some  other:  as  for  me 
I  scarce  am  fit  for  your  great  plans :  yet  speak 

to  me. 
Say  one  soft  word  and  let  me  part  forgiven." 

Bat  Ida  spoke  not,  rapt  npon  the  child. 
Then  Arac    "  Ida— 'sdeatb !  you  blame  the  man ; 
Ton  wrong  yonrselves— the  woman  is  so  bard 
Upon  the  woman.    Come,  a  grace  to  me ! 
I  am  your  warrior ;  I  and  mine  have  fought 
Your  battle:  kiss  ber;  take  her  hand,  she  weeps: 
'Sdeatb  !  I  would  sooner  fight  thrice  o'er  than  aee  it." 

Bat  Ida  spoke  not,  gaziiig  on  the  gronnd, 
And  reddening  in  the  fbrrows  of  his  chin. 
And  moved  beyond  bis  custom,  Oana  said: 

"I've  heard  that  there  is  iron  in  the  blood, 
And  I  believe  it.    Not  one  word  t  not  one  f 
Whence  drew  you  this  steel  temper?  not  from  me. 
Not  from  your  mother  now  a  saint  with  saints. 
She  said  you  bad  a  heart— I  beard  her  say  it— 
'  Oar  Ida  baa  a  heart  '-Just  ere  she  died— 
'  But  see  that  some  one  with  authority 
Be  near  ber  still,'  and  I— I  sought  for  one- 
All  people  said  she  had  authority— 
The  Lady  Blanciic :  much  profit !    Not  one  word ; 
No !  tbo'  your  father  sues :  see  how  yon  stand 
Stiff  aa  Lot's  wife,  and  all  the  good  knights  maim'd, 
I  trust  that  there  is  no  one  hurt  to  death. 
For  your  wild  whim :  and  was  it  then  for  this, 
Was  it  for  this  we  gave  our  palace  up, 
Where  we  withdrew  from  summer  heats  and  state. 
And  had  our  wine  and  chess  beneath  the  planes. 
And  many  a  pleasant  hour  with  her  that's  gone. 
Ere  you  were  bom  to  vex  us  ?    Is  it  kind  t 
Speak  to  her  I  say :  is  this  not  she  of  whom. 
When  first  she  came,  all  flush'd  yon  said  to  me 
Now  bad  yon  got  a  friend  of  your  own  age. 
Now  could  yon  share  your  thought;  now  shonld 

men  see 
Two  women  faster  welded  in  one  love 
Than  pairs  of  wedlock ;  she  you  walk'd  with,  she 
You  talk'd  with,  whole  nights  long,  up  in  the  tower, 
Of  sine  and  arc,  spheroid  and  azimuth, 
And  right  ascension.  Heaven  knows  what ;  and  now 
A  word,  but  one,  one  little  kindly  word, 
Not  one  to  spare  her :  out  upon  you,  flint ! 
Yoa  love  nor  her,  nor  me,  nor  any ;  nay, 
You  shame  your  mother's  judgment  too.    Not  one  ? 
Yon  will  not?  well — no  heart  have  you,  or  such 
As  fancies  like  the  vermin  in  a  nut 
Have  fretted  all  to  dust  and  bitterness." 
So  said  the  small  king  moved  beyond  his  wont. 

But  Ida  stood  nor  spoke,  drain'd  of  her  force 
By  many  a  varying  influence  and  so  long. 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


101 


Down  thro*  her  limb*  a  drooping  langnor  wept : 
Her  hPiid  a  liillo  bent ;  and  on  her  mouth 
A  doubtful  uulle  dwelt  like  a  cload«d  moon 
In  A  tUII  wattr:  then  brake  out  my  sirv 
Lining  hia  grim  head  fh>m  my  woando.    "O  yon, 
Woman,  whom  wo  thou);ht  woman  even  now, 
And  were  half  rt>»rtl  to  let  yon  totul  oiir  aOD, 
Because  he  mit;ht  have  wish'd  it— but  we  aee 
The  accomplice  of  your  madneM  unforglven, 
And  think  that  yon  might  mix  hta  draught  with 

death, 
When  your  xkiefl  chaiip;  a^iu :  the  rougher  hand 
la  aaftr:  on  to  tho  teuta:  take  up  the  Prince." 

He  roae,  and  while  each  ear  waa  prlck'd  to  attend 
A  tempest,  thro'  the  clond  that  dlram'd  her  broke 
A  genial  warmth  and  llj^ht  once  more,  and  shone 
Thro'  glittering  drope  on  her  sad  ft-iend. 

"Come  hither, 

0  Payche,"  she  cried  ont,  "  embrace  me,  come. 
Quick  while  I  melt;  make  a  reconcilement  sure 
With  one  that  cannot  keep  her  mind  nu  hour: 
Come  to  the  hollow  heart  they  slander  so ! 
KiflB  and  be  fri(<nd%  like  children  being  chid  1 
/seem  no  more:  /  want  for^jivcneM  too: 

1  should  have  had  to  do  with  none  but  maids. 
That  have  no  links  with  men.    Ah  falre  but  dear, 
Dear  traitor,  too  much  loved,  why  T— why  t    Yet  see 
Before  theee  kings  we  embrace  you  yet  once  more 
With  all  forgirenesa,  all  oblivion. 

And  trust,  not  love,  you  less. 

And  now,  O  Sire, 
Grant  me  yonr  son,  to  nurse,  to  wait  npon  him. 
Like  mine  own  brother.    For  my  debt  to  him, 
This  nightmare  weight  of  gratitude,  I  know  it ; 
Taunt  me  no  more :  yourself  and  yours  shall  have 
Free  adit;  we  will  scatter  all  our  maids 
Till  happier  times  each  to  her  proper  hearth: 
What  use  to  keep  them  here  now  ?  grant  my  prayer. 
Help,  father,  brother,  help;  speak  to  the  king: 
Thaw  this  male  nature  to  some  touch  of  that 
\\'hich  kills  me  with  myself,  and  drags  me  down 
From  my  flxt  height  to  mob  me  up  with  all 
The  soft  and  milky  rabble  of  womankind. 
Poor  weakling  ev'n  as  they  are." 

Passionate  tears 
Follow'd:  the  king  replied  not:  Cyril  said: 
"Your  brother,  Lady,— Florian,— ask  for  him 
Of  your  great  head— for  he  is  wounded  too — 
That  you  may  tend  upon  him  with  the  prince." 
"  Ay  so,"  said  Ida  with  a  bitter  smile, 
"Our  laws  are  broken:  let  him  enter  too." 
Then  Violet,  she  that  sang  the  monniful  song. 
And  had  a  cousin  tumbled  on  the  plain, 
Petition'd  too  for  him.    "Ay  so,"  she  said, 
"  I  stagger  in  the  stream :  I  cannot  heep 
Hy  heart  an  eddy  from  the  brawling  hour : 
We  break  our  laws  with  ease,  but  let  it  be." 
"Ay  so?"  said  Blanche:  "Amazed  am  I  to  hear 
Yonr  Highness :  but  your  Highness  breaks  with  ease 
The  law  your  Highness  did  not  make :  'twas  I. 
I  had  been  wedded  wrife,  I  knew  mankind. 
And  hlock'd  them  out ;  but  these  men  came  to  woo 
Your  Highness— verily  I  think  to  win." 

So  she,  and  turn'd  askance  a  wintry  eye: 
But  Ida  with  a  voice,  that  like  a  bell 
ToU'd  by  ah  earthquake  in  a  trembling  tower, 
liang  ruin,  answer'd  tall  of  grief  and  scorn. 

"  Fling  onr  doors  wide !  all,  all,  not  one,  but  all. 
Not  only  he,  but  by  my  mother's  soul, 
Whatever  man  lies  wounded,  friend  or  foe. 
Shall  enter,'  if  he  wilL    Let  our  girls  flit. 
Till  the  storm  die !    but  had  yen  stood  by  us. 
The  roar  that  breaks  the  Pharoe  from  his  base 
Had  left  us  rock.    She  fain  would  sting  us  too. 


But  ahall  not    Pass,  and  mingle  wltb  your  like*. 
We  brook  no  Ihrther  insult  bat  at*  gone." 

She  tom'd ;  the  very  nnpc  of  her  white  neck 
Waa  roaed  with  indignation :  but  the  Prince 
Her  brother  came ;  the  king  her  Aiibcr  charm'd 
Her  woanded  aonl  with  words:  nor  did  mine  own 
Kefnae  her  profllsr,  laatly  gave  hia  hand. 

Then  na  they  lifted  np,  dead  weighta,  and  bare 
Straight  to  the  doors:  to  them  tho  doora  gave  way 
Groaniii'^',  and  in  the  VeittHi  entry  sbriek'd 
The  virgin  marble  under  iron  heels: 
.\nd  on  they  moved  and  gain'd  the  hall,  and  there 
Rested :  but  great  the  crush  was,  and  each  base, 
To  left  and  right,  of  those  tall  columns  drown'd 
In  silken  Hurtunticni  and  the  swarm 
Of  female  whisiHJrcrs:  at  the  further  end 
Waa  Ida  by  the  thninc,  the  two  great  cata 
Close  by  her,  like  supimrters  on  a  shield, 
Bow-back'd  with  fear :  but  in  tho  centre  atood 
The  common  men  with  rolling  eyes;  amased 
They  glared  upon  the  women,  and  aghaat 
The  women  stared  at  these,  all  silent,  save 
When  armor  clash'd  or  Jingled,  while  the  day. 
Descending,  stmck  athwart  the  hall,  and  shot 
A  flying  splendor  out  of  brass  and  steel. 
That  o'er  the  statues  leapt  from  bead  to  head. 
Now  flred  an  angry  Pallas  on  the  helm. 
Now  set  a  wrathfhl  Dian's  moon  on  flame. 
And  now  and  thou  an  echo  started  up, 
.\nd  shuddering  lied  from  room  to  room,  and  died 
Of  fright  in  fur  apartments. 

Then  the  voice 
Of  Ida  sonnded,  issuing  ordinance : 
And  me  they  bore  up  the  broad  stairs,  and  thro' 
The  long-laid  galleries  past  a  hundred  doors 
To  one  deep  chamber  shut  fk-om  sound,  and  due 
To  languid  limbs  and  sickness  ;  left  me  in  it; 
And  others  otherwhere  they  laid;  and  all 
That  afternoon  a  sound  arose  of  hoof 
And  chariot,  many  a  maiden  passing  home 
Till  happier  times ;  but  some  were  left  of  those    • 
Held  sagest,  and  the  great  lords  out  and  in. 
From  those  two  hosts  that  lay  beside  the  walls, 
Walk'd  at  their  will,  and  everything  waa  changed. 


Ask  me  no  more:  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea; 
The  clond  may  stoop  from  heaven  and  take  the 

shape. 
With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape; 
But  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  answer'd  theet 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more:  what  answer  should  I  givef 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye: 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee  die! 

Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee  live ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more:  thy  fate  and  mine  arc  scal'd: 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in  vain: 
Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main: 

No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield : 
Ask  me  no  more. 

VIL 

So  was  their  sanctuary  violated. 

So  their  fair  college  turn'd  to  hospital ; 

At  first  with  all  conftasion :  by  and  by 

Sweet  order  lived  again  witk  other  laws: 

A  kindlier  influence  reign'd;  and  everywhere 

Low  voices  with  the  ministering  hand 

Hung  round  the  sick :  the  maidens  came,  they  talk'd, 

They  sang,  they  read :  till  she  not  fair,  began* 

To  gather  light,  and  she  that  was,  became 

Her  former  beauty  treble :  and  to  and  firo 


102 


THE  PRINCESS  :  A  MEDLEY. 


With  books,  with  flowers,  with  Angel  ofllceB, 
Like  creatures  native  unto  gracious  act. 
And  in  their  own  clear  element,  they  moved. 

Bat  sadness  on  the  sonl  of  Ida  fell. 
And  hatred  of  her  weakness,  blent  with  shame. 
Old  studies  fuil'd ;  seldom  she  spoke ;  but  oft 
Clomb  to  the  roofs,  and  gazed  alone  for  hom°8 
On  that  disastrous  leaguer,  swarms  of  men 
Darkening  her  female  fleld :  void  was  her  nse ; 
And  she  as  one  that  climbs  a  peak  to  gaze 
O'er  land  and  main,  and  sees  a  great  black  cloud 
Drag  inward  from  the  deeps,  a  wall  of  uight. 
Blot  out  the  slope  of  sea  from  verge  to  shore, 
And  suck  the  blinding  splendor  from  the  sand. 
And  quenching  lake  by  lake  and  tarn  by  tarn 
Expunge  the  world:  so  fared  she  gazing  there; 
So  blacken'd  all  her  world  in  secret,  blank 
And  waste  it  seem'd  and  vain ;  till  down  she  came, 
And  found  fair  peace  once  more  among  the  sick. 

And  twilight  dawn'd ;  and  mom  by  morn  the  lark 
Shot  up  and  shrill'd  in  flickering  gyres,  but  I 
Lay  silent  in  the  muffled  cage  of  life : 
And  twilight  gloom'd ;  and  broader-grown  the  bowers 
Drew  the  great  night  into  themselves,  and  Heaven, 
Star  after  star,  arose  and  fell ;  bnt  I, 
Deeper  than  those  weird  doubts  could  reach  me,  lay 
Quite  Bunder'd  from  the  moving  Universe, 
Nor  knew  what  eye  was  on  me,  nor  the  hand 
That  nursed  me,  more  than  infanta  in  their  sleep. 

But  Psyche  tended  Florian:  with  her  oft 
Melissa  camo ;  for  Blanche  had  gone,  but  left 
Her  child  among  us,  willing  she  should  keep 
Court-favor:  hero  and  there  the  small  bright  head, 
A  light  of  healing  glanced  about  the  couch, 
Or  thro'  the  parted  silks  the  tender  face 
Peep'd,  shining  in  upon  the  wounded  man 
With  bluHh  and  smile,  a  medicine  in  themaelves 
To  wile  the  length  from  languorous  hours,  and  draw 
The  sting  from  pain ;  nor  seem'd  it  strange  that  soon 
Be  rose  np  whole,  and  thoee  fidr  charities 
Join'd  at  her  side;  nor  stranger  aeem'd  that  hearts 
So  gentle,  so  employ'd,  should  cloee  in  love. 
Than  when  two  dew-drops  on  the  petal  shake 
To  the  same  sweet  air,  and  tremble  deeper  down, 
And  slip  at  once  all-fragrant  into  one. 

Less  prosperously  the  second  suit  obtain'd 
At  first  with  Psyche.    Not  though  Blanche  had  sworn 
That  after  that  dark  night  among  the  flelda, 
She  needs  must  wed  him  for  her  own  good  name; 
Not  tho'  he  biiilt  upon  the  babe  restored ; 
Nor  tho'  she  liked  him,  yielded  she,  bnt  fear'd 
To  incense  the  Head  once  more ;  till  on  a  day 
When  Cyril  pleaded,  Ida  came  behind 
Seen  but  of  P.«iyche :  on  her  foot  she  hung 
A  moment,  and  she  heard,  at  which  her  face 
A  little  flush'd,  and  she  past  on ;  but  each 
Assumed  from  thence,  a  half-consent  involved 
In  stillness,  plighted  troth,  and  were  at  peace. 

Nor  only  these :  Love  in  the  sacred  halls 
Held  carnival  at  will,  and  flying  struck 
With  showers  of  random  sweet  on  maid  and  man. 
Nor  did  her  father  cease  to  press  my  claim. 
Nor  did  mine  own  now  reconciled;  nor  yet 
Did  those  twin  brothers,  risen  again  and  whole ; 
Nor  Arac,  satiate  with  hia  victory. 

Bnt  I  lay  atiU,  and  vitth  me  oft  she  sat : 
Then  came  a  change;  for  sometimes  I  would  catch 
Her  hand  in  wild  delirium,  gripe  it  hard. 
And  fling  it  like  a  viper  off,  and  shriek 
"  Yotf  are  not  Ida ;"  clasp  it  once  again, 
And  call  her  Ida,  tho'  I  knew  her  not, 
And  call  her  sweet,  as  if  iu  irony. 


And  call  her  hard  and  cold  which  seem'd  a  truth : 
And  still  she  fear'd  that  I  should  lose  ray  mind, 
And  often  she  believed  that  I  should  die: 
Till  out  of  long  frustration  of  her  care. 
And  pensive  tendance  in  the  all-weary  noons. 
And  watches  in  the  dead,  the  dark,  when  clocks 
Throbb'd  thunder  thro'  the  palace  floors,  or  call'd 
On  flying  Time  from  all  their  silver  tongues — 
And  out  of  memories  of  her  kindlier  days. 
And  sidelong  glances  at  my  father's  grief, 
And  at  the  happy  lovers  heart  in  heart — 
And  out  of  hauutings  of  my  spoken  love. 
And  lonely  listenings  to  my  mutter'd  dream, 
And  often  feeling  of  the  helpless  hands. 
And  wordless  broodings  on  the  wasted  cheek— 
From  all  a  closer  interest  flonrish'd  np. 
Tenderness  touch  by  touch,  and  last,  to  these, 
Love,  like  an  Alpine  harebell  hung  with  tears 
By  some  cold  morning  glacier;  frail  at  flret 
And  feeble,  all  unconscious  of  itself, 
Bat  sach  as  gather'd  color  day  by  day. 

Last  I  woke  sane,  bat  wellnigh  close  to  death 
For  weakness:  it  was  evening:  silent  light 
Slept  on  the  painted  walls,  wheAin  were  vrrought 
Two  grand  designs:  for  on  one  side  arose 
The  women  up  in  wild  revolt,  and  stonn'd 
At  the  Oppian  law.    Titanic  shapes,  they  cramm'd 
The  forum,  and  half-crush'd  among  the  rest 
A  dwarflike  Cato  cower'd.    On  the  other  side 
Hortensia  spoke  against  the  tax ;  behind, 
A  trdn  of  dames:  by  axe  and  eagle  sat, 
With  all  their  foreheads  drawn  in  Roman  scowls, 
And  half  the  wuirs-milk  curdled  in  their  veins, 
The  fierce  triumvirs;  and  before  them  paused 
Hortensia,  pleading:  angry  was  her  Cue. 

I  saw  the  forms :  I  knew  not  where  I  was : 
They  did  but  seem  as  hollow  shows;  nor  more 
Sweet  Ida:  palm  to  palm  she  sat:  the  dew 
Dwelt  in  her  eyes,  and  softer  all  her  shape 
And  rounder  show'd:  I  moved:  I  sigh'd:  a  tAudi 
Came  round  my  wrist,  and  tears  upon  my  hand : 
Then  all  for  languor  and  self-pity  ran 
Mine  down  my  face,  and  with  what  life  I  had. 
And  like  a  flower  that  cannot  all  unfold. 
So  drencb'd  it  is  with  tempest,  to  the  sun, 
Tet,  as  it  may,  turns  toward  him,  I  on  her 
Fixt  my  faint  eyes,  and  utter'd  whisperingly : 

"  If  yon  be,  what  I  think  yon,  some  sweet  dream, 
I  woald  but  ask  yon  to  fhlfll  yourself: 
But  if  you  be  that  Ida  whom  I  knew, 
I  ask  yon  nothing :  only,  if  a  dream. 
Sweet  dream,  be  perfect.    I  shall  die  to-night. 
Stoop  down  and  seem  to  kiss  me  ere  I  die." 

I  could  no  more,  bnt  lay  like  one  in  trance. 
That  hears  his  burial  talk'd  of  by  his  friends, 
And  cannot  speak,  nor  move,  nor  make  one  sign, 
Bnt  lies  and  dreads   bis  doom.     She  tum'd;  she 

paused; 
She  stoop'd;  and  out  of  languor  leapt  a  cry; 
Leapt  flery  Passion  from  the  brinks  of  death ; 
And  I  believed  that  in  the  living  worid 
My  spirit  closed  with  Ida's  at  the  lips ; 
Till  back  I  fell,  and  from  mine  arms  she  rose 
Glowing  all  over  noble  shame ;  and  all 
Her  falser  self  slipt  from  her  like  a  robe, 
And  left  her  woman,  lovelier  in  her  mood 
Than  in  her  mould  that  other,  when  she  came 
From  barren  deeps  to  conquer  all  with  love : 
And  down  the  streaming  crystal  dropt ;  and  she 
Far-fleeted  by  the  pnrple  island-sides. 
Naked,  a  double  light  in  air  and  wave. 
To  meet  her  Graces,  where  they  deck'd  her  out 
For  worship  without  end ;  nor  end  of  mine. 
Stateliest,  for  theel  but  mute  she  glided  forth, 


Tllli:  PBINCE8S:   A  IfEDLET. 


108 


Nor  Klanc«<l  b«hlDd  ber,  and  I  uak  and  tlept, 
PlU'd  Uiru'  and  thru'  with  Loro,  a  happ/  alMp. 

Deep  in  the  night  I  wukc :  rUc,  near  me,  held 
A  Yolome  of  the  Poets  of  her  laud : 
There  to  bwaelf,  alt  in  low  tones,  she  read. 

'   "  Now  aleeps  the  crimaon  petal,  now  the  white : 
Nor  waTei  the  cypress  in  the  palaro  wal)( ; 
Nor  winks  the  gold  fln  in  the  pon>li>'0'  foot: 
The  firefly  wakens:  waken  thou  with  me. 

"Now  droops  the  milkwhltc  peacock  like  a  ghost, 
And  like  a  ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

"Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danat<  to  the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

"  Now  elides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and  leaves 
A  shining  fUrrow,  as  thy  thoughts  In  me. 

"Now  folds  the  Illy  nil  her  sweetness  np, 
.\nd  Klips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake  : 
.So  (bid  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me." 

I  heard  her  tarn  the  page :  she  fonnd  a  small 
Sweet  Idyl,  and  once  more,  as  low,  she  read : 

"Come   down,  O   maid,  (h>m   yonder  mountain 
height : 
What  pleasure  lives  in  bel$;ht  (the  shepherd  sang), 
In  height  and  cold,  the  splendor  of  the  hills? 
But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  Heavens,  and  cease 
To  glide  a  snnbeam  by  the  blasted  Pine, 
To  sit  a  star  upon  the  sparkling  spire ; 
And  come,  for  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come, 
For  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come  thou  down 
And  find  him;  by  the  happy  threshold,  he. 
Or  hand  in  hand  with  Plenty  in  the  maize. 
Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vat«. 
Or  foxlikc  in  the  vine ;  uor  cares  to  walk 
With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  Silver  Uorns, 
Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white  ravine. 
Nor  And  him  dropt  upon  the  flrths  of  ice, 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow^ioven  (alls 
To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dnsky  doors; 
But  follow :  let  the  torrent  dance  thee  do^vn 
To  And  him  iu  the  valley;  let  the  wild 
Lean-heado^  Eagles  yelp  alone,  and  leave 
The  monstrous  ledges  Uiere  to  slope,  and  spill 
Their  thousand  wreaths  of  dangling  water-smoke, 
Tliat  like  a  broken  purpose  waste  in  air: 
So  waste  not  thou ;  but  come ;  for  all  the  vales 
Await  thee ;  azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 
Arise  to  thee :  the  children  call,  and  I 
Thy  shepherd  pipe,  and  sweet  is  every  sound. 
Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is  sweet ; 
Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  thro'  the  lawn. 
The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms. 
And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees." 

So  she  low-toned ;  while  wi^h  shut  eyes  I  lay 
Listening ;  then  look'd.    Pale  was  the  perfect  face : 
The  bosom  with  long  sighs  labor'd ;  and  meek 
Seem'd  the  full  lips,  and  mild  the  luminous  eyes. 
And  the  voice  trembled  and  the  hand.    She  said 
Brokenly,  that  she  knew  it,  she  had  (ail'd 
In  sweet  humility;  had  liEdi'd  in  all; 
That  all  her  labor  was  but  as.  a  block 
Left  in  the  qnarry;  but  she  still  were  loath. 
She  still  were  loath  to  yield  herself  to  one. 
That  wholly  scom'd  to  help  their  equal  rights 
Against  the  sons  of  men,  and  barbarous  laws. 
She  pray'd  me  not  to  judge  their  cause  fh>m  her 
That   wrong'd   it,  sought   far   lees   for   truth   than 

power 
In  knowledge:  something  wild  within  her  breast. 


A  greater  than  all  knowledgei  beat  her  down. 
And  she  had  nnra'd  me  there  flrom  week  to  week: 
Much  had  she  learnt  in  lltUe  tlaie.    In  part 
11  was  ill  counsel  bad  misled  the  girl 
To  vex  true  hearts :  yet  was  she  but  a  girl— 
"Ah  fool,  and  made  myself  a  QoMn  of  (kroe  1 
When  comes  another  such  f  never,  I  think 
Till  the  Son  drop  dead  lh>m  the  signs." 

Her  roicr 
Choked,  and  her  forehead  sank  upon  her  hands. 
And  her  great  heart  through  all  the  faultful  Past 
Went  sorrowing  in  a  pause  I  dared  not  break  ; 
Till  notice  of  a  change  iu  the  dark  world 
Was  iisp'd  about  tlio  acacias,  and  a  bird. 
That  early  woke  to  feed  her  little  ones, 
Sent  fh>m  a  dewy  breast  a  cry  for  light : 
She  moved,  and  at  her  feet  the  volume  felL 

"Blame  not  thyself  too  much,"  I  said,  "  nor  blame 
Too  much  the  sons  of  men  and  barbarous  laws ; 
These  were  the  rough  ways  of  Uie  world  till  now. 
Henceforth  thon  hast  a  helper,  me,  that  know 
The  woman's  caose  is  man's:  they  rise  or  sink 
Together,  dwarf 'd  or  godlike,  bond  or  ft-ec: 
For  she  that  out  of  Lethe  scales  with  man 
The  shining  steps  of  Nature,  shares  with  man 
His  nights,  his  days,  moves  with  him  to  one  goal. 
Stays  all  the  (kir  young  planet  in  her  hands— 
If  she  be  small,  slight-natured,  miserable. 
How  shall  men  grow  T  but  work  no  more  alone ! 
Our  place  is  much :  as  far  as  iu  us  lies 
We  two  will  serve  them  iKith  in  aiding  her- 
Will  clear  away  the  parasitic  forms 
That  seem  to  keep  her  up  but  drag  her  down— 
Will  leave  her  space  to  burgeon  out  of  all 
Within  her — let  her  make  herself  her  own 
To  give  or  keep,  to  live  and  IcArn  and  be 
.\11  that  not  harms  distinctive  womanhood. 
For  woman  is  not  nndevelopt  man. 
But  diverse:  could  we  make  her  as  the  roan, 
Sweet  love  were  slain:  his  dearest  bond  is  thi.'<, 
Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 
Yet  in  the  long  years  llker  must  they  grow : 
The  man  bo  more  of  woman,  she  of  man  ; 
He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral  height. 
Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  that  throw  the  world :  • 
She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  childward  care, 
Nor  lose  the  childlike  in  the  larger  mind; 
Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man. 
Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words ; 
And  so  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of  Time, 
Sit  side  by  side,  full-summ'd  in  nit  their  powers. 
Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 
Self-reverent  each  and  reverencing  each. 
Distinct  in  individualities. 
But  like  each  other  ev'n  as  those  who  love. 
Then  comes  the  statelier  Eden  bark  to  men: 
Then   reign  the  world's  great  bridals,  ch.tste   and 

calm: 
Then  springs  the  crowning  race  of  humankind. 
May  these  things  be!" 

Sighing  she  spoke,  "  I  fear 
They  will  not"  ^ 

"  Dear,  but  let  us  type  them  now 
In  our  own  lives,  and  this  proud  watchword  rest 
Of  equal ;  seeing  either  sex  alone 
Is  half  itself,  and  in  trae  marringe  lies 
Nor  equal,  nor  unequal :  each  fulflls 
Defect  in  each,  and  always  thought  in  thought. 
Purpose  in  purpose,  will  in  will,  they  grow. 
The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal. 
The  two-cell'd  heart  beating,  with  one  full  stroke. 
Life." 

And  again  sighing  ebe  spoke:  "  A  dream 
That  once  was  mine  !  what  woman  taught  yon  this  f " 

"Alone,"  I  said,  "from  earlier  than  I  know. 
Immersed  in  rich  forashadowlngs  of  the  world, 


104 


THE  PRINCESS :  A  MEDLEY. 


I  loved  the  woman :  he,  that  doth  not,  lives 

A  drowning  life,  besotted  in  sweet  sell', 

Or  pines  in  sad  experience  worse  than  death, 

Or  keeps  his  wing'd  affections  dipt  with  crime : 

Yet  was  there  one  thro'  whom  I  loved  her,  one 

Not  learned,  save  in  gracious  household  ways. 

Not  perfect,  nay,  but  full  of  tender  wants. 

No  Angel,  but  a  dearer  being,  all  dipt 

In  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Paradise, 

Interi)reter  between  the  Gods  and  men, 

Who  look'd  all  native  to  her  place,  and  yet 

On  tiptoe  seem'd  to  touch  upon  a  sphere 

Too  gross  to  tread,  and  all  male  minds  perforce 

Sway'd  to  her  from  their  orbits  as  they  moved, 

And  girded  her  with  music.    Happy  he 

With  such  a  mother  1  faith  in  womankind 

BeaU  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all  things  high 

Comes  easy  to  him,  and  tho'  he  trip  and  fall 

He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay." 

"  But  I," 
.Said  Ida,  tremulously,  "  so  all  nnlik&— 
It  seems  yon  love  to  cheat  yourself  with  words : 
This  mother  is  your  model    I  have  heard 
Of  your  strange  doubts :    they  well   might  be :  I 

seem 
A  mockery  to  my  own  selfl    Never,  Prince  ; 
You  cannot  love  me." 

"  Nay  but  thee,"  I  said, 
"  Prom  yearlong  poring  on  thy  pictured  eyea, 
Ere  seen  I  loved,  and  loved  thee  seen,  and  saw 
Thee  woman  thro'  the  crust  of  iron  moods 
That  mask'd  thee  from  men's   reverence   np,  and 

forced 
Sweet  iove  on  pranks  of  saucy  boyhood :  now, 
Glv'n  back  to  life,  to  life  Indeed,  thro'  thee, 
Indeed  I  love ;  the  new  day  comes,  the  light 
Dearer  for  night,  as  dearer  thou  for  faults 
Lived  over :  lift  thine  eyes ;  my  doubts  are  dead. 
My  haunting  sense  of  hollow  shows ;  the  change. 
This  truthf\il  change  '.n  thee  has  kili'd  It.    Dear, 
Look  up,  and  let  thy  nature  strike  on  mine, 
Like  yonder  morning  on  the  blind  half-world ; 
Approach  and  fear  not ;  breathe  upon  my  brows ; 
In  that  fine  air  I  tremble,  all  the  past 
Melts  mlst-llke  Into  this  bright  hour,  and  thla 
*  Is  mom  to  more,  and  all  the  rich  to-come 
Reels,  as  the  golden  Autumn  woodland  reels 
Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning  weeds.    Porglve  me, 
I  waste  my  heart  in  signs :  let  be.    My  bride. 
My  wife,  my  life.    O  we  will  walk  this  world, 
Yoked  In  all  exercise  of  noble  end. 
And  so  thro'  those  dark  gates  across  the  wild 
That  EO  man  knows.    Indeed  I  love  thee :  come. 
Yield  thyself  up  •  my  hopes  and  thine  are  one : 
Accomplish  thou  my  manhood  and  thyself; 
Lay  thy  sweet  hands  In  mine  and  trust  to  me." 


CONCLUSION. 

.■^io  closed  our  tale,  of  which  I  give  you  all 

The  random  scheme  as  wildly  as  it  rose: 

The  words  aje  mostly  mine ;  for  when  we  ceased 

There  came  a  minute's  pause,  and  Walter  said, 

"  I  wish  she  had  not  yielded !"  then  to  me, 

"  What,  if  you  drest  it  up  poetically !" 

So  pray'd  the  men,  the  women :  I  gave  assent : 

Yet  how  to  bind  the  scatter'd  scheme  of  seven 

Together  in  one  sheaf?    WTiat  style  could  snitt 

The  men  required  that  I  should  give  throughout 

The  sort  of  mock-heroic  gigantesque, 

With  which  we  banter'd  little  Lilia  flrst: 

The  women — and  perhaps  they  felt  their  power. 

For  something  in  the  ballads  which  they  sang, 

Or  in  their  silent  influence  as  they  sat. 

Had  ever  seem'd  to  wrestle  with  burlesque, 

And  drove  us,  last,  to  quite  a  solemn  close — 

They  hated  banter,  wsh'd  for  something  real, 


A  gallant  fight, -a  noble  princess — why 

Not  make  her  true-heroic — true-sublime  ? 

Or  all,  they  said,  as  earnest  as  the  close  ? 

Which  yet  with  such  a  framework  scarce  could  be 

Then  rose  a  little  feud  betwixt  the  two. 

Betwixt  the  mockers  and  the  realists ; 

And  I,  betwixt  them  both,  to  please  them  both. 

And  yet  to  give  the  story  as  it  rose, 

I  moved  as  in  a  strange  diagonal, 

And  maybe  neither  pleased  myself  nor  them. 

But  Lilla  pleased  me,  for  she  took  no  part 
In  our  dispute :  the  sequel  of  the  tale 
Had  toucb'd  her ;  and  she  sat,  she  plnck'd  the  grass. 
She  flung  it  from  her,  thinking:  last,  she  flxt 
A  showery  glance  upon  her  aunt,  and  said, 
"You— tell  us  what  we  are"  who  might  have  told. 
For  she  was  cramm'd  with  theories  out  of  books. 
But  that  there  rose  a  shout :  the  gates  were  closed 
At  sunset,  and  the  crowd  were  swarming  now. 
To  take  ttaelr  leave,  about  the  garden  rails. 

So  I  and  some  went  out  to  these:  we  climb'd 
The  slope  to  Vivian-place,  and  turning  saw 
The  happy  valleys,  half  in  light,  and  half 
Par-shadowing  from  the  west,  a  land  of  peace ; 
Gray  halls  alone  among  the  massive  groves; 
Trim  bamleu ;  here  and  there  a  rustic  tower 
Half-lost  in  belU  of  hop  and  breadths  of  wheat ; 
The  shimmering  glimpses  of  a  stream ;  the  seas ; 
A  red  sail,  or  a  white :  and  far  beyond. 
Imagined  more  than  seen,  the  sklrU  of  France. 

"  Look  there,  a  garden  r  said  my  college  friend. 
The  Tory  member's  elder  son,  "  and  there  ! 
God  bless  the  narrow  sea  which  keeps  her  off. 
And  keeps  our  BriUln,  whole  within  herself, 
A  nation  yet,  the  rulers  and  the  ruled— 
Some  sense  of  duty,  something  of  a  faith, 
Some  reverence  for  the  laws  ourselves  have  made. 
Some  patient  force  to  change  them  when  we  will, 
Some  civic  manhood  Arm  against  the  crowd- 
Bat  yonder,  whiff!  there  comes  a  sadden  heat. 
The  gravest  cltlien  seems  to  lose  his  head, 
The  king  is  scared,  the  soldier  will  not  flght. 
The  little  boys  begin  to  shoot  and  stab, 
A  kingdom  topples  over  with  a  shriek 
Like  an  old  woman,  and  down  rolls  the  world 
In  mock  heroics  stranger  than  our  own ; 
Revolts,  republics,  revolutions,  most 
No  graver  than  a  school-boys'  barring  out; 
Too  comic  for  the  solemn  things  they  are. 
Too  solemn  for  the  comic  touches  in  them, 
Like  our  wild  Princess  with  as  wise  a  dream 
As  some  of  theirs— God  bless  the  narrow  seas  '. 
I  wish  they  were  a  whole  Atlantic  broad." 

"Have  patience,"  I  replied,  "ourselves  are  full 
Of  social  wrong ;  and  maybe  wildest  dreams 
Are  but  the  needful  preludes  of  the  truth : 
For  me,  the  genial  day,  the  happy  crowd, 
The  sport  half-science,  fill  me  with  a  faith. 
This  flue  old  world  of  ours  is  but  a  child 
Yet  in  the  go-cart    Patience !    Give  it  time 
To  learn  its  limbs:  there  is  a  hand  that  guides." 

In  such  discourse  we  gain'd  the  garden  rails. 
And  there  we  saw  Sir  Walter  where  he  stood, 
Before  a  tower  of  crimson  holly-oaks. 
Among  six  boys,  head  under  head,  and  look'd 
No  little  lily-handed  Baronet  he, 
A  great  broad-shoulder'd  genial  Englishman, 
A  lord  of  fat  prize-oxen  and  of  sheep, 
A  raiser  of  hnge  melons  and  of  pine, 
A  patron  of  some  thirty  charities, 
A  pamphleteer  on  guano  and  on  grain, 
A  quarter-sessions  chairman,  abler  none ; 


IN  MEMORIABL 


lOff 


Fklr-halr'd  and  redder  than  a  wtndy  niurn ; 
Now  shaking  banda  with  him,  now  htm,  of  tboM 
That  Btood  the  BMrwt— now  mUltrMi'd  to  apMch— 
Who  apoka  hm  words  and  pithy,  Hurh  aa  ela««d 
WalooiiM,  ikr«w«ll,  and  welromo  for  the  year 
To  follow :  a  shunt  ruee  ttcaiti,  and  made 
The  lung  line  uf  the  appronchiiiK  rookery  swerve 
Fntm  the  elma,  nnd  shook  tho  brnnchca  uf  the  deer 
Prom  slope  to  mI(I|>«  thro'  dUtnnt  ffniA,  and  rang 
Beyond  the  bouru  of  minitct ;  U,  a  fhoiit 
More  Joyfttl  thHU*tho  city-roar  that  hails 
Premier  or  kiiiK !    Why  iihould  not  these  great  Sin< 
QiT«  up  their  parks  some  dosen  times  a  year 
To  let  the  people  breathe  f    So  thrice  they  cried, 
I  Ukewise,  and  in  groapa  they  atream'd  away. 


Bat  w*  went  back  to  the  Abbey,  and  sat  ou, 
So  moch  the  gathcrlnc  darkness  chartn'd :  we  aai 
Bat  spoke  not,  rapt  in  nameless  reverie, 
Perchance  npou  Uic  future  man  i  the  walls 
Blacken'd  about  u^  bats  wheel'd,  and  owls  whoop'd, 
And  gradaally  the  powers  of  the  night, 
That  range  above  the  region  of  the  wind. 
Deepening  tho  courts  of  lwiltt;ht  broke  them  ap 
Thro'  all  the  silent  spaces  of  the  worlds. 
Beyond  all  thoaght  into  the  Ucavcu  of  Ueavena. 

Last  little  Lilla,  rising  quietly, 
Disrobed  the  glimmering  statue  of  Sir  Ralph 
Prom  those  rich  ailka,  and  home  well-pleased  we 
went. 


IN    MEMORIAM. 


SnoNO  Son  of  Ood,  Immortal  Love, 
Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  flice, 
By  faith,  and  feith  alone,  embrace, 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove ; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade ; 

Thou  madest  life  in  man  and  brute; 

Thou  madest  Death ;  and  lo,  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  bast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust: 
Thou  madest  man,  be  knows  not  why ; 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die ; 

And  thou  hast  made  him :  thou  art  Just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 
The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thon : 
Onr  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day; 
They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be: 
They  are  bat  broken  lights  of  thee. 

And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith  :  we  cannot  know ; 

For  knowledge  Is  of  things  we  sec ; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness:  let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  flrom  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  ns  dwell ; 
That  mind  and  soul  according  well, 

May  make  one  music  as  before. 

Bat  vaster.    We  are  fools  and  slight ; 
We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear: 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem'd  my  sin  In  me; 

What  seem'd  my  worth  since  I  began ; 

For  merit  lives  flrom  man  to  man, 
And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed. 
Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 
Confhsions  of  a  wasted  yonth  : 
Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in  trnthi 

And  In  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 
ISM. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

A.  H.  II. 

OBIIT   MDCCCXXXIII. 

I. 

I  HELD  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years. 
And  And  in  loss  a  gain  to  match  f 
Or  reach  a  hand  thro'  time  to  catch 

The  far-off  interest  of  tears  t 

Let  Love  clasp  Grief  lest  both  be  drown'd. 
Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss: 
Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss, 

To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the  ground. 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should  scorn 
The  long  result  of  love,  and  boast, 
"Behold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn." 

XL 

Old  Yew,  which  graspeet  at  the  stones 
That  name  the  underlying  dead. 
Thy  fibres  net  the  dreamlesH  head. 

Thy  roots  are  wrapt  about  the  bones. 

The  seasons  bring  the  flower  again. 
And  bring  the  firstling  to  the  flock ; 
And  in  the  dusk  of  thee,  the  clock 

Beats  out  the  little  lives  of  men. 

O  not  for  thee  the  glow,  the  bloom. 
Who  changest  not  in  any  gale, 
Nor  branding  summer  suns  avail 

To  touch  tby  thousand  years  of  gloom : 

And  gazing  on  thee,  sullen  tree. 
Sick  for  thy  stubborn  hardihood, 
I  seem  to  fail  fW)m  out  my  blood 

And  grow  Incorporate  Into  thee. 

IIL 

O  BOKBOw,  cruel  fellowship, 
O  Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death, 
O  sweet  and  bitter  in  a  breath. 

What  whispers  fhim  thy  lying  Up  t 


106 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


"The  stars,"  she  whispers,  "blindly  run; 

A  web  is  wov'n  across  the  sky; 

Prom  out  waste  places  comes  a  cry. 
And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun: 

"And  all  the  phantom.  Nature,  stands,— 
With  all  the  music  in  her  tone, 
A  hollow  echo  of  my  own, — 

A  hollow  form  with  empty  bands." 

And  shall  I  take  a  thing  so  blind. 
Embrace  her  as  my  natural  good; 
Or  crush  her,  like  a  vice  of  blood. 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  mind  f 

IV. 

To  Sleep  I  give  my  powers  away: 
My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark; 
I  sit  within  a  helmless  bark. 

And  with  my  heart  I  muse  and  say: 

0  heart,  how  fares  it  with  thee  now. 
That  thou  shouldst  fail  ftom  thy  desire, 
Who  scarcely  darest  to  inquire 

"What  iB  it  makes  me  beat  so  lowT" 

Something  it  Ib  which  thou  hast  lost, 
Some  pleasure  f^om  thine  early  yeara. 
Break,  thou  deep  vase  of  chilling  tean, 

That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost  1 

Such  clouds  of  nameless  trouble  croes 
All  night  below  the  darken'd  eyes; 
With  morning  wakes  the  will,  and  crier*, 

"Thou  shalt  not  be  the  fool  of  loss." 

V. 

1  HOMKTiMES  hold  it  half  a  sin 

To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel : 
For  words,  like  Nature,  half  reveal 
And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  nnqniet  heart  and  brain, 
A  use  in  measured  language  lies: 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise, 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  I'll  wrap  mo  o'er, 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold ; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  enfold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 

VL 

One  writes,  that  "Other  (Hends  remain," 
That  "  Loss  is  common  to  the  race," — 
And  common  is  the  commonplace, 

And  vacant  chaff  well  meant  for  grain. 

That  loss  is  common  wonid  not  make 
My  own  less  bitter,  rather  more : 
Too  common '.    Never  morning  wore 

To  evening,  but  some  heart  did  break. 

O  father,  wheresoe'er  thou  be. 
Who  pledgest  now  thy  gallant  son  ; 
A  shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be  done, 

Hath  Btill'd  the  life  that  beat  trom  thee. 

O  mother,  praying  God  will  save 
Thy  sailor,— while  thy  head  is  bow'd. 
His  heavy-shotted  hammock-shroud 

Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 

Ye  know  no  more  than  I  who  wrought 
At  that  last  hour  to  please  him  well ; 
Who  mused  on  all  I  had  to  tell. 

And  something  written,  something  thought: 


Expecting  still  his  advent  home : 
And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 
With  wishes,  thinking,  here  to-day. 

Or  here  to-morrow  will  he  come. 

O  somewhere,  meek  nnconscions  dove. 
That  sittest  ranging  golden  hair ; 
And  giad  to  find  thyself  so  fair. 

Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  love  ! 

For  now  her  father's  chiraney*glow8 

In  expectation  of  a  guest ; 

And  thinking  "This  will  please  him  beet," 
She  takes  a  riband  or  a  rose; 

For  he  will  see  them  on  to-night ; 

And  with  the  thought  her  color  bnms ; 

And,  having  left  the  glass,  she  turns 
Once  more  to  set  a  ringlet  right; 

And,  ev'n  when  she  tum'd,  the  curse 
Had  fallen,  and  her  future  lord 
Was  drown' d  in  passing  thro'  the  ford. 

Or  kill'd  in  falling  from  his  horse. 

O  what  to  her  shall  be  the  end  T 
And  what  to  me  remains  of  good  t 
To  her,  perpetual  maidenhood. 

And  unto  me  no  second  friend. 

VII. 

Dask  honae,  by  which  once  more  I  stand 
Here  In  the  long  unlovely  street. 
Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 

So  quickly,  waiting  for  a  hand, 

A  hand  that  can  be  clasp'd  no  more, — 

Behold  me,  for  I  cannot  sleep. 

And  like  a  guilty  thlug  I  creep 
At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 

He  is  not  here ;  bat  for  away 
The  noise  of  life  begins  again. 
And  ghastly  thro'  the  driszling  rain 

On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank  day. 

VIIL 

A  HAPPY  lover  who  has  come 
To  look  on  her  that  loves  him  well. 
Who  'lights  and  rings  the  gateway  bell. 

And  learns  her  gone  and  Car  from  home; 

He  saddens,  all  the  magic  light 
Dies  off  at  once  from  bower  and  hall. 
And  all  the  place  Is  dark,  and  all 

The  chambers  emptied  of  delight: 

So  find  I  every  pleasant  spot 
In  which  we  two  were  wont  to  meet, 
The  field,  the  chamber,  and  the  street. 

For  all  Is  dark  where  thou  art  not. 

Yet  as  that  other,  wandering  there 
In  those  deserted  walks,  may  find 
A  flower  beat  with  rain  and  wind. 

Which  once  she  foster'd  up  with  care; 

So  seems  It  In  my  deep  regret, 

0  my  forsaken  heart,  with  thee 
And  this  poor  flower  of  poesy 

Which  little  cared  for  fades  not  yet 

But  since  it  pleased  a  vanlsh'd  eye, 

1  go  to  plant  it  on  his  tomb, 
That  if  it  can  it  there  may  bloom. 

Or  dying,  there  at  least  may  die. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


107 


IX. 

Faik  ship,  thiit  fW>m  tho  IuUsd  thora 
8«tlMt  I  '<-eaiii|>UiliM 

With  t"  or'B  luved  r«maliii>, 

Spmd  Ui>  '     ,;n  and  waft  him  u'vr. 

9o  draw  him  home  to  thow  that  moarn 
In  vain :  a  fnvorable  apcod 
Rnffl«  thy  mirror'd  mii«t,  mid  lead 

Thro'  ppMsperous  fluodo  his  holy  orn. 

All  ni^t  no  mder  air  p«rplcx 
Thy  olidliii;  I«h>I,  till  rhiwphor.  brlt;ht 
An  our  pnre  luvp,  thro"  onrly  H^lit 

Shall  glimmer  on  Uic  dewy  dccktt. 

Sphere  alt  yonr  lights  around,  above ; 

Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the  prow ; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  streps  now. 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love ; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 
Till  all  ray  widow'd  race  be  run ; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son. 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 

X. 

I  HEAR  the  noise  about  thy  keel; 

I  hear  the  bell  stmcic  in  the  night; 

I  see  the  cabin-window  bright; 
I  see  the  sailor  at  the  wheeL 

Thou  bringest  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 
And  travell'd  men  from  foreign  Inudn; 
And  letters  unio  trembling  hands; 

And,  thy  dark  freight,  a  vanish'd  life. 

So  bring  him:  we  have  idle  dreams: 
This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 
Onr  home-bred  fancies :  O  to  ns, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod, 
That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the  rains, 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 

The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God ; 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 
Should  gulf  him  fathom-deep  in  brine ; 
And  hands  so  often  clasp'd  in  mine 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shell-. 

XI. 
Caxjh  is  the  mom  without  a  sound. 

Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief. 

And  only  thro'  the  faded  leaf 
The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold 
And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the  fhrze, 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold: 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn  bowers. 
And  crowded  farms  and  le^cening  towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall ; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all. 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair : 

Cahn  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep. 
And  waves  that  sway  thems'elves  in  rest. 
And  dead  calm  in  that  nol)ie  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 


XIL 

Lo,  aa  a  dove  when  up  she  aprlnga 
To  bear  thru'  Heaven  a  tale  of  woe, 
Some  dolorous  message  knit  b«k>w 

The  wild  puhMtion  of  her  wings ; 

Like  her  I  ro  ;  I  cannot  stay : 
I  leave  this  mortal  ark  behind, 
A  weight  of  nerves  without  a  mind. 

And  leave  the  cliflOh  and  haste  away 

O'er  ocean-mirrors  roanded  large. 
And  reach  the  glow  of  sontbem  sklea, 
And  see  the  sails  at  distance  rise, 

And  linger  weeping  on  the  marge, 

And  saying,  "  Cornea  he  thus,  my  friend  r 

Is  this  the  end  of  all  my  care  r' 

And  circle  moaning  in  the  air: 
"  Is  this  the  end  t    Is  this  the  end  T" 

And  forward  dart  again,  and  play 
About  the  prow,  and  back  retom 
To  where  the  t>o<ly  sits,  and  leom, 

That  I  liavi!  I)ceii  an  hour  away. 

XIII. 

Tkabs  of  the  widower,  when  ho  jiocs 
A  iate-lost  form  thiit  sleep  reveals, 
And  moves  his  doubtful  arms,  and  feels 

Her  place  is  empty,  fall  like  these ; 

Which  weep  a  loss  forever  new, 
A  void  where  heart  on  heart  reposed ; 
And,  where  warm  hands  have  preat  and  clos'd. 

Silence,  till  I  be  silent  too. 

Which  weep  the  comrade  of  my  choice, 
An  awful  thought,  a  life  removed. 
The  human-hearted  man  I  loved, 

A  Spirit,  not  a  breathing  voice. 

Come  Time,  and  teach  me,  many  years, 

I  do  not  suffer  in  a  dream ; 

For  now  so  strange  do  these  things  seem. 
Mine  eyes  have  leisure  for  their  tears; 

My  fancies  time  to  rise  on  wing. 
And  glance  about  the  approaching  sails. 
As  tho'  they  brought  but  merchants'  bales. 

And  not  the  burthen  that  they  bring. 

nv. 

If  one  should  bring  me  this  report. 
That  thou  hadst  touch'd  the  land  to-day. 
And  I  went  down  unto  the  quay. 

And  found  thee  lying  in  the  port; 

And  standing,  muffled  round  with  woe, 
Should  see  thy  passengers  in  rank  • 
Come  stepping  lightly  down  the  plank, 

And  beckoning  unto  those  they  know; 

And  if  along  with  these  should  come 

The  man  I  held  as  half-divine; 

Should  strike  a  sudden  hand  in  mine. 
And  ask  a  thousand  things  of  home ; 

And  I  should  tell  him  all  my  pain. 
And  how  my  life  bad  droop'd  of  late. 
And  he  should  sorrow  o'er  my  state 

And  marvel  what  possess'd  my  brain ; 

And  I  perceived  no  touch  of  change, 
No  hint  of  death  in  ail  his  fhime. 
But  found  him  all  in  ail  the  same, 

I  should  not  feel  it  to  be  strange. 


108 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


XV. 

To-night  the  winds  begin  to  rise 
And  roar  from  yonder  dropping  day: 
The  last  red  leaf  is  whlrl'd  away, 

The  rooks  are  blown  about  the  skies ; 

The  forest  crack'd,  the  waters  curl'd, 

The  cattle  huddled  on  the  lea; 

And  wildly  dash'd  on  tower  and  tree 
The  sunbeam  strikes  along  the  world: 

And  but  for  fancies,  which  aver 
That  all  thy  motions  gently  pass 
Athwart  a  plane  of  molten  glass, 

I  scarce  could  brook  the  strain  and  stir 

That  makes  the  barren  branches  load ; 
And  but  for  fear  it  is  not  so, 
The  wild  unrest  that  lives  in  woe 

Would  dote  and  pore  on  yonder  cloud 

That  rises  upward  always  higher, 
And  onward  drags  a  laboring  breast. 
And  topples  round  the  dreary  west, 

A  looming  bastion  fringed  with  fire. 

XVI. 

What  words  are  these  have  (aH'n  from  met 
Can  calm  despair  and  wild  unrest 
Be  tenants  of  a  single  breast. 

Or  sorrow  such  a  changeliog  bet 

Or  doth  she  only  seem  to  take 
The  touch  of  change  in  calm  or  storm ; 
But  knows  no  more  of  transient  form 

In  her  deep  self,  than  some  dead  lake 

That  holds  ttie  shadow  of  a  lark 
Hung  in  the  shadow  of  a  heaven  ? 
Or  has  the  shock,  so  harshly  given, 

Confused  me  like  the  unhappy  bark 

That  strikes  by  night  a  craggy  shelt 
And  staggers  blindly  ere  she  slnkt 
And  stunn'd  roe  from  my  power  to  think 

And  all  my  knowledge  of  myself; 

And  made  me  that  delirions  man 
Whose  fancy  fiises  old  and  new, 
And  flashes  into  flilse  and  true. 

And  mingles  all  without  a  planf 

XVII. 

Tnou  comest,  much  wept  for :  such  a  breeze 
Compell'd  thy  canvas,  and  my  prayer 
Was  as  the  whisper  of  nn  air 

To  breathe  thee  over  lonely  seas. 

For  I  in  spirit  saw  thee  move 
Thro'  circles  of  the  bounding  sky, 
Week  after  week :  the  days  go  by : 

Come  quick,  thou  bringest  all  I  love. 

Henceforth,  wherever  thou  may'st  roam, 
My  blessing,  like  a  line  of  light. 
Is  on  the  waters  day  and  night. 

And  like  a  beacon  guards  thee  home. 

So  may  whatever  tempest  mars 
Mid-ocean  spare  thee,  sacred  bark ; 
And  balmy  drops  in  summer  dark 

Slide  from  Uie  bosom  of  the  stars. 

So  kind  an  office  hath  been  done. 
Such  precious  relics  brought  by  thee ; 
The  dust  of  him  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run. 


XVIII. 

"T  IS  well ;  't  is  something ;  we  may  stand 
Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid, 
And  from  his  ashes  may  be  made 

The  violet  of  his  native  land. 

*T  is  little :  but  it  looks  in  truth 
As  if  the  quiet  bones  were  blest 
Among  familiar  names  to  rest 

And  in  the  places  of  tiis  youth. 

Come  then,  pure  tiands,  and  bear  the  bead 
That  sleeps  or  wears  the  mask  of  sleep. 
And  come,  whatever  loves  to  weep. 

And  hear  the  ritual  of  the  dead. 

Ah  yet,  ev'n  yet,  if  this  might  be, 
I,  falling  on  his  faithful  heart. 
Would  breathing  through  his  lips  impart 

The  life  that  almost  dies  in  me; 

That  dies  not,  but  endures  with  pain. 
And  slowly  forms  the  firmer  mind. 
Treasuring  the  look  it  cannot  find. 

The  words  that  are  not  heard  again. 

XIX. 

TiiK  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 
The  darken'd  heart  that  lieat  no  more: 
They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore, 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fllls ; 
The  rait  sea-water  passes  by, 
And  bashes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  bills. 

Tlie  Wye  Is  hush'd  nor  moved  along. 
And  hush'd  my  deepest  grief  of  all, 
When  fill'd  with  tears  that  cannot  fall, 

I  brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flows  down,  the  wave  again 

la  vocal  in  Its  wooded  walls; 

My  deeper  angnlsh  also  falls. 
And  I  can  speak  a  little  then. 

XX- 

Th«  lesser  griefb  that  may  be  said, 
That  breathe  a  thousand  tender  vows. 
Are  bnt  as  servants  in  a  house 

Where  lies  the  master  newly  dead ; 

Who  speak  their  feeling  as  it  is, 
Apd  weep  the  fkilness  trom  the  mind : 
"  It  will  be  hard,"  they  say,  "  to  find 

Another  service  sach  as  this." 

My  lighter  moods  are  like  to  these, 
That  out  of  words  a  comfort  win ; 
But  there  are  other  griefs  within. 

And  tears  that  at  their  fonnUin  freeze : 

For  by  the  hearth  the  children  sit 
Cold  in  that  atmosphere  of  Death, 
And  scarce  endure  to  draw  the  breath. 

Or  like  to  noiseless  phantoms  flit: 

But  open  converse  is  there  none. 
So  much  the  vital  spirits  sink 
To  see  the  vacant  chair,  and  think, 

"  How  good  !  how  kind !  and  he  is  gone." 

XXL 

I  8IKG  to  him  that  rests  below. 
And,  since  the  grasses  round  me  wave, 
I  take  the  grasses  of  the  grave, 

Aiyl  make  them  pipes  whereon  to  blow. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


loe 


Tha  traTclIar  hMUW  me  now  and  then, 
And  MmMtiiDM  harahly  will  be  >p«iik : 
"ThU  Mlow  woald  mitko  weakn«M  weak, 

And  molt  Um  w«x«n  hearu  of  men." 

Another  anawera,  "  Let  him  be, 
He  tovea  to  make  parade  of  pain, 
That  with  hia  piping  he  may  italn 

The  pralM  that  cornea  to  oonauncy." 

A  third  In  wroth,  "  la  thta  an  hour 
For  i>rlvAtc  Rurniw'a  barren  aong, 
Whrn  iiioro  and  more  the  people  throng 

The  chaira  and  thronea  of  civU  power  t 

"A  time  to  aicken  and  to  owoon, 
Whpn  Science  reachoH  Turth  \wr  arms 
To  feel  fW>m  world  to  world,  ntid  chftrnu 

Her  secret  flrom  the  latest  moon  V 

Behold,  ye  speak  an  Idle  thing: 

Yo  never  knew  the  sacred  dust : 

I  do  but  sing  because  I  must, 
And  pipe  bat  as  the  linnets  sing : 

And  one  Is  glad :  her  note  is  gay, 
For  now  her  little  ones  have  ranged: 
And  one  Is  sad :  her  note  is  changed, 

Because  her  brood  Is  Btol'n  away. 

xxn. 

Tub  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go, 
Which  led  by  tracts  that  pleased  ns  well, 
Thro'  four  sweet  years  arose  and  fell, 

From  flower  to  flower,  (h}m  snow  to  snow- 

And  we  with  singing  cheer'd  the  way, 
And  crown'd  with  all  the  season  lent. 
From  April  on  to  April  went. 

And  glad  at  heart  from  May  to  May: 

Bat  where  the  path  wc  walk'd  began 
To  slant  the  fifth  antomnal  slope. 
As  we  descended,  following  Hope, 

There  sat  the  Shadow  fcor'd  of  man ; 

Who  broke  our  (air  companionship, 
And  spread  his  mantle  dark  and  cold. 
And  wrapt  thee  formless  in  the  fold, 

And  dull'd  the  murmur  on  thy  lip, 

And  bore  thee  where  I  could  not  see 
Nor  follow,  tho'  I  walk  in  haste. 
And  think  that  somewhere  in  the  waste 

The  Shadow  sita  and  waits  for  me. 

xxnL 

Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shnt. 

Or  breaking  Into  song  by  fits. 

Alone,  alone,  to  where  he  sits, 
The  Shadow  cloak'd  from  head  to  foot. 

Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds, 
I  wander,  often  falling  lame. 
And  looking  back  to  whence  I  came. 

Or  on  to  where  the  pathway  leads ;  ' 

And  crying,  "  How  changed  from  where  it  ran 
Thro'  lands  where  not  a  leaf  was  dumb ; 
But  all  the  lavish  hills  would  ham 

The  murmur  of  a  happy  Pan : 

"When  each  by  tarns  was  guide  to  each. 
And  Fancy  light  ftom  Fancy  caught. 
And  ThouRht  leapt  out  to  wed  with  Thought 

Ere  Thought  could  wed  itself  with  Speech : 


"  And  all  we  met  WM  Mr  and  good, 
And  all  was  good  that  Titiio  rould  bring. 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  Hpring 

Moved  In  the  chambers  of  the  blood ; 

"And  many  an  old  plilloaophy 
On  Argivo  haighlM  divinely  sang. 
And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 

To  many  a  flute  of  Arcady." 

XXIV. 

Amd  was  the  day  of  my  delight 
As  sure  and  perfect  as  I  sayf 
Tho  very  source  and  font  of  Day 

la  dash'd  with  wandering  isles  of  night. 

If  all  was  good  and  fklr  we  met, 
This  earth  had  been  the  Paradise 
It  never  look'd  to  human  eyes 

Since  Adam  left  his  garden  yet. 

And  is  it  that  tho  haze  of  grief 
Makes  former  gladness  loom  so  i;rcatf 
The  lownesB  of  the  present  state, 

That  eete  the  past  in  this  relief  r 

Or  that  the  past  will  always  win 

A  glory  from  Its  being  far; 

And  orb  into  the  perfect  star 
We  saw  not,  when  we  moved  therein  t 

XXV. 

I  xMOw  that  this  was  Life,— the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feel  we  fared : 
And  then,  as  now,  the  day  prepared 

The  daily  burden  for  the  baclc 

But  this  it  was  that  made  mc  move 
As  light  as  carrier-birds  in  air; 
I  loved  the  weight  I  had  to  bear. 

Because  it  needed  help  of  love ; 

Nor  could  I  weary,  heart  or  limb, 
Wlien  mighty  Love  would  cleave  in  twain 
The  lading  of  a  single  pain. 

And  part  it,  giving  half  to  him. 

XXVI. 

Still  onward  winds  the  dreary  way ; 
I  with  it :  for  I  long  to  prove 
No  lapse  of  moons  can  canker  Love, 

Whatever  fickle  tongues  may  say. 

And  if  that  eye  which  watches  guilt 
And  goodness,  and  hath  power  to  sec 
Within  the  green  the  monlder'd  tree. 

And  towers  fall'n  as  soon  as  built, — 

O,  if  Indeed  that  eye  foresee 
Or  see  (in  Ilim  is  no  before) 
In  more  of  life  true  life  no  more. 

And  Love  the  indiflerence  to  be, 

Then  might  I  find,  ere  yet  the  mom 
Breaks  hither  over  Indian  seaa. 
That  Shadow  waiting  with  the  keys. 

To  shroud  me  from  my  proper  scorn. 

XXVIL 

I  ntvT  not  in  any  moods 
The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 
The  linnet  bom  within  the  cage. 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods, 

I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter'd  by  the  sense  of  crime. 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes: 


110 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest. 
The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth. 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth  ; 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest 

I  hold  it  trae,  whate'er  befall ; 

I  feel  it,  when  I  norrow  most; 

'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  alL 

XXVIII. 

Tub  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ : 
The  moon  is  hid ;  the  night  is  still ; 
The  Christmas  bells  from  hill  to  hill 

Answer  each  other  in  the  mist. 

Foar  voices  of  four  hamlets  round, 
From  far  and  near,  on  mead  and  moor, 
Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a  door 

Were  shut  between  me  and  the  sound: 

Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind, 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  decrease, 
Peace  and  good-will,  good-will  and  peace, 

Peace  and  good-will,  to  all  mankind. 

This  year  I  slept  and  woke  with  pain, 
I  almost  wish'd  no  more  to  wake, 
And  that  my  bold  on  life  would  break 

Before  I  heard  those  bells  again: 

Bat  they  my  troubled  spirit  mle. 
For  they  coutroll'd  me  when  a  boy; 
They  bring  me  sorrow  touch'd  with  Joy, 

The  merry,  merry  bells  of  Yule. 

XXIX. 

With  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve 
Ae  daily  vexes  household  peace. 
And  chains  regret  to  his  decease, 

How  dare  we  keep  our  Christmas-eve; 

Which  brings  no  more  a  welcome  guest 
To  enrich  the  threshold  of  the  night 
With  shower'd  largess  of  delight. 

In  dance  and  song  and  game  and  Jest 

Yet  go,  and  while  the  holly-boughs 
Entwine  the  cold  baptismal  font. 
Make  one  wreath  more  for  Use  and  Wont 

That  guard  the  portals  of  the  taoaso ; 

Old  sisters  of  a  day  gone  by. 
Gray  nurses,  loving  nothing  new ; 
Wljy  should  they  miss  their  yearly  due 

Before  their  time  ?    They  too  will  die. 

XXX. 

With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave 
The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth; 
A  rainy  cloud  possess'd  the  earth. 

And  sadly  fell  our  Christmas-eve. 

At  our  old  pastimes  in  the  hall 
We  gamboll'd,  making  vain  pretence 
Of  gladness,  with  an  awful  sense 

Of  one  mute  Shadow  watching  all. 

We  paused:  the  winds  were  in  the  beech: 
We  heard  them  sweep  the  winter  land ; 
And  in  a  circle  hand-in-hand 

Sat  silent,  looking  each  at  each. 

Then  echo-like  our  voices  rang; 
We  sung,  tho'  every  eye  was  dim, 
A  merry  song  we  sang  with  him 

Last  year :  impetuously  we  sang : 


We  ceased:  a  gentler  feeling  crept 

Upon  us  :  surely  rest  is  meet : 

"They  rest,"  we  said,  "their  sleep  is  sweet," 
And  silence  follow'd,  and  we  wept. 

Our  voices  took  a  higher  range ; 

Once  more  we  sang:  "They  do  not  die 

Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy, 
Nor  change  to  as,  although  they  change ; 

"Rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail 
With  gather'd  power,  yet  the  same, 
Pierces  the  keen  seraphic  flame 

From  orb  to  orb,  f^om  veil  to  veiL" 

Rise,  happy  mom,  rise,  holy  morn. 
Draw  forth  the  cheerful  day  from  night: 
O  Father,  touch  the  east,  and  light 

The  light  that  shone  when  Hope  was  born. 

XXXL 
Wmm  Lazarus  left  his  chamel-cave. 
And  home  to  Mary's  house  retnm'd, 
Was  this  demanded,— if  he  yeam'd 
To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  grave? 

"Wbere  wert  ttaon,  brother,  those  four  da}'6?" 

There  lives  no  record  of  reply. 

Which  telling  what  It  b  to  die 
Had  surely  added  praise  to  praise. 

From  every  hoose  the  neighbors  met. 
The  street*  were  flll'd  with  Joyful  sound, 
A  solemn  gladness  even  crown'd 

The  paiple  brows  of  Olivet. 

Behold  a  mnn  raised  ap  by  Christ ! 

The  rest  remalneth  anreveal'd  ; 

He  told  it  not;  or  something  seal'd 
The  lips  of  that  Evangelist. 

XXXIL 
Hkb  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer. 
Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he  site, 
And  he  that  brought  him  back  hs  there. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  fh>m  the  living  brother's  face. 

And  resta  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears, 
Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete. 
She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Saviour's  feet 

With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful  prayers. 
Whose  loves  In  higher  love  endure; 
What  souls  possess  themselves  so  pare. 

Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs  1 

XXXIII. 

O  mon  that  after  toil  and  storm 
Mayst  seem  to  have  reach'd  a  purer  air. 
Whose  Ihith  has  centre  everywhere. 

Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form, 

Leave  thou  thy  sister,  when  she  prari>. 
Her  early  Heaven,  her  happy  views; 
Nor  thou  with  shadow'd  hint  confuse 

A  life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

Her  faith  thro'  form  is  pure  as  thine, 
Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good: 
O,  sacred  be  the  flesh  and  blood 

To  which  she  links  a  truth  divine ! 


i:^  MKMUIUAM. 


Ill 


t$e«  thnn,  thnt  connlMt  rvMon  rip« 

In  hoUllntc  by  the  law  wllblu, 

Thou  fail  not  in  a  world  of  alu, 
And  «▼*!>  ft>r  want  of  «ucb  a  typ«. 

XXXIV. 

Mv  own  dim  lite  ahoold  tMcb  m*  thU, 
That  life  shall  IIta  fbreTermore, 
BlM  earth  la  darkoeaa  al  iho  core, 

And  dust  and  ashea  all  that  Is; 

This  round  of  Kro«n,  this  orb  of  flame, 
Fantastic  beauty;  such  as  lurks 
In  some  wild  Poet,  when  be  works 

WItbont  a  conscience  or  an  aim. 

What  then  were  Uml  to  such  as  I  f 
T  were  hardly  worth  my  while  to  eUoo^c 
or  thinf^  all  mortal,  or  to  use 

A  little  patience  ere  I  die; 

*T  were  best  at  once  to  sink  to  peace, 
Like  birds  the  charming  serpent  draws, 
To  drop  head-foremost  in  the  Jaws 

or  vacant  darkness,  and  to  oeaae. 

XXXV. 

Yrr  if  some  voice  that  man  could  trust 
Should  murmur  from  the  narrow  bouH5, 
"  The  cheeks  drop  in ;  the  l>ody  bowt< ; 

Man  dies:  nor  is  there  hope  in  dust:" 

Might  I  not  say,  "Yet  even  here. 
But  for  one  hour,  O  Love,  I  strive 
To  keep  so  sweet  a  thing  alive?" 

But  I  should  turn  mine  ears  and  hear 

The  moanings  of  the  homeless  sea. 
The  sound  or  streams  that  swirt  or  Blow 
Draw  down  iEonian  hills,  and  sow 

The  dnst  or  continents  to  be ; 

And  Love  would  answer  with  a  sigh, 
"The  sound  of  that  rorgetfUl  shore 
Will  change  my  sweetness  more  and  more, 

Hair-dead  to  know  that  I  shall  die." 

O  met  what  profits  it  to  put 
An  idle  case  1    If  Death  were  seen 
At  first  as  Death,  Love  had  not  been. 

Or  been  in  narrowest  working  shut. 

Mere  fellowship  of  sluggish  moods. 

Or  in  bis  coarsest  Satyr-ehape 

Had  bruised  the  herb  and  crush'd  the  grape, 
And  bask'd  and  batten'd  in  the  weods. 

XXXVI. 

Tho'  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join, 
Deep-seated  in  our  mystic  ftame. 
We  yield  all  blessing  to  the  name 

or  Him  that  made  them  current  coin ; 

For  Wisdom  dealt  with  mortal  powers, 
Where  tmth  in  closest  words  shall  foil, 
When  truth  embodied  in  a  tale 

Shall  enter  in  at  lowly  doors. 

And  so  the  Word  had  breath,  and  wrought 
With  human  hands  the  creed  or  creeds 
In  loveliness  or  perfect  deeds. 

More  strong  than  all  poetic  thought : 

Which  he  may  read  that  binds  the  shear, 
Or  builds  the  house,  or  digs  the  grave. 
And  those  wild  eyes  that  watch  the  wave 

la  roarings  round  the  coral  reef. 


XXXVII. 

Uka.<<ia  K|K>nkii  with  darken'd  brow; 

**Thuu  prntfKt  hero  where  thou  art  Irnxt. 

This  fiilib  has  many  a  purer  prlcfH, 
And  many  an  abler  voice  than  thou. 

"Oo  down  beside  thy  native  rUI, 
On  thy  Parnassus  set  thy  feet. 
And  hear  thy  laurel  whisper  sweet 

About  the  ledges  or  tho  hill." 

And  my  Melpomene  replies, 
A  toudi  or  shame  upon  her  check : 
"I  am  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak 

or  thy  prevailing  mysteries ; 

"For  I  am  but  an  earthly  Muse, 
And  owning  but  a  little  art 
To  lull  with  song  an  aching  heart. 

And  render  human  love  his  dues; 

"But  brooding  on  the  dear  one  dead, 
And  all  he  said  or  things  divine, 
(.\nd  dear  to  me  as  sacred  wine 

To  dying  lips  Is  all  he  said,) 

"I  murmur'd,  as  I  came  along, 
or  comfort  clasp'd  in  truth  reveal'd  ; 
And  loiter'd  in  the  Master's  field, 

And  darken'd  sanctities  with  song." 

XXXVIII. 

With  weary  steps  I  loiter  on, 
Tho'  always  under  alter'd  skies 
The  purple  from  the  distance  dies. 

My  prospect  and  horizon  gone. 

No  joy  the  blowing  season  gives, 
The  herald  melodies  of  spring, 
But  in  the  songs  I  love  to  sing 

A  doubtful  gleam  of  solace  lives. 

ir  any  care  for  what  is  here 
Survive  In  spirits  rendcr'd  free, 
Then  are  these  songs  I  sing  of  thee 

Not  all  tugrateflil  to  thine  ear. 

XXXIX. 

CoiTLD  we  forget  the  widow'd  hour, 
And  look  on  Spirits  breathed  away, 
As  on  a  maiden  in  the  day 

When  first  she  wears  her  orange-flower ! 

When  crown'd  with  blessing  she  doth  rise 
To  take  her  latest  leave  of  home. 
And  hopes  and  light  regrets  that  come 

Make  April  or  her  tender  eyes : 

And  doubtfbl  joys  the  father  move. 
And  tears  are  on  the  mother's  foce, 
As  parting  with  a  long  embrace 

She  enters  other  realms  or  love : 

Her  oiBce  there  to  rear,  to  teach. 
Becoming,  as  is  meet  and  fit, 
A  link  among  the  days,  to  knit 

The  generations  each  wiUi  each; 

And,  doubtless,  unto  thee  is  given 
A  life  that  bears  Immortal  rrult 
In  such  great  oiBoee  as  suit 
*The  (bll-grown  energlee  of  heaven. 

Ay  me,  the  diflterencc  I  discern ! 
How  orten  shall  her  old  fireside 
Be  cheer'd  with  tidings  or  the  bride, 

How  often  she  herself  return, 


112 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  tell  them  all  they  would  have  told, 
And  bring  her  babe,  and  make  her  boast. 
Till  even  those  that  miss'd  her  most    , 

Shall  count  new  things  as  dear  as  old: 

But  thou  and  I  have  shaken  hands, 

Till  growing  winters  lay  me  low; 

My  paths  are  in  the  fields  I  know, 
And  thine  in  undiscover'd  lands. 

XL. 

Thy  spirit  ere  our  fatal  loss 
Did  ever  rise  from  high  to  higher ; 
Afe  mounts  the  heavenward  altar-flre, 

Ah  flies  the  lighter  thro'  the  grose. 

But  thou  art  tum'd  to  something  strange, 
And  I  have  lost  the  links  that  bound 
Thy  changes ;  here  upon  the  ground, 

No  more  partaker  of  thy  change. 

Deep  folly !  yet  that  this  could  be- 
That  1  could  wing  my  will  with  might 
To  leap  the  grades  of  life  and  light, 

And  flash  at  once,  my  friend,  to  thee : 

For  tho*  my  nature  rarely  ylcldfl 
To  that  vague  fear  implied  In  death ; 
Nor  shudders  at  the  gulfs  beneath. 

The  bowlings  firom  forgotten  flelda: 

Yet  oft  when  sundown  skirts  the  moor 

An  Inner  trouble  I  behold, 

A  spectral  doubt  which  makes  me  cold, 
That  I  shall  be  thy  mate  no  more, 

Tho'  foUowring  with  an  upward  mind 
The  wonders  that  have  come  to  thee, 
Thro'  all  the  secular  to-be. 

But  evermore  a  life  behind. 

XLL 

I  vMC  my  heart  with  fancies  dim: 
He  still  outstrlpt  me  in  the  race ; 
It  was  but  unity  of  place 

That  made  me  dream  I  rank'd  with  him. 

And  BO  may  Place  reUin  us  still, 
And  he  the  much-beloved  again. 
A  lord  of  large  experience,  train 

To  riper  growth  the  mind  and  will: 

And  what  delights  can  equal  those 
That  stir  the  spirit's  Inner  deeps, 
When  one  that  loves,  but  known  not,  reaps 

A  truth  from  one  that  loves  and  knows? 

XLH. 
Ir  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one. 

And  every  spirit's  folded  bloom 

Thro'  all  ite  intervlUl  gloom 
In  some  long  trance  should  slumber  on ; 

Unconscious  of  the  sliding  hour, 

Bare  of  the  body,  might  it  last, 

And  silent  traces  of  the  past 
Be  all  the  color  of  the  flower: 

So  then  were  nothing  lost  to  man ; 

So  that  still  garden  of  the  souls 

In  many  a  figured  leaf  enrolls 
The  total  world  since  life  began ;  i 

And  love  will  last  as  pure  and  whole 
As  when  he  loved  me  here  in  Time, 
And  at  the  spiritual  prime 

Rewaken  with  the  da\TOing  soul. 


XLIII. 
How  fares  it  with  the  happy  dead? 

For  here  the  man  is  more  and  more; 

But  he  forgets  the  days  before 
God  shut  the  doorways  of  his  head. 

The  days  have  vanish'd,  tone  and  tint, 
And  yet  perhaps  the  hoarding  sense 
Gives  out  at  times  (he  knows  not  whence) 

A  little  flash,  a  mystic  hint; 

And  in  the  long  harmonious  years 
(If  Death  bo  taste  Lethean  springs) 
May  some  dim  touch  of  earthly  things 

Surprise  thee  ranging  with  thy  peers. 

If  such  a  dreamy  touch  should  fall, 
O  turn  thee  round,  resolve  the  doubt ; 
My  guardian  angel  will  speak  out 

In  that  high  place,  and  tell  thee  all. 

XLIV. 

Thb  baby  new  to  earth  and  sky, 
What  time  his  tender  palm  is  prest 
Against  the  circle  of  the  breast, 

Has  never  thought  that  "  this  is  I :" 

But  as  he  grows  he  gathers  much. 
And  learns  the  use  of  "  1,"  and  "  me," 
And  finds  "  I  am  not  what  I  see. 

And  other  than  the  Uiings  I  touch." 

So  rounds  he  to  a  separate  mind 
From  whence  clear  memory  may  begin. 
As  thro'  the  frame  that  binds  him  in 

His  isolation  grows  defined. 

This  use  may  He  In  blood  and  breath. 
Which  else  were  fruitless  of  their  due. 
Had  man  to  leani  himself  anew 

Beyond  the  second  birth  of  Death. 

XLV. 

Wa  ranging  down  this  lower  track, 
The  path  we  came  by,  thorn  and  flower. 
Is  shadow'd  by  the  growing  hour. 

Lest  life  should  tail  in  looUng  back. 

So  be  it:  there  no  shade  can  last 
In  that  deep  davra  behind  the  tomb. 
But  clear  trom  marge  to  marge  shall  bloom 

The  eternal  landscape  of  the  past : 

A  lifelong  tract  of  time  reveal'd ; 

The  fruitful  hours  of  still  increase; 

Days  order'd  in  a  wealthy  peace, 
And  those  live  years  its  richest  field. 

O  Love,  thy  province  were  not  large, 
A  bounded  field,  nor  stretching  far; 
Look  also.  Love,  a  brooding  star, 

A  rosy  warmth  from  marge  to  marge. 

XLVL 

That  each,  who  seems  a  separate  whole, 
Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fusing  all 
The  skirts  of  self  again,  should  fall 

Remerging  in  the  general  Soul, 

Is  faith  as  vague  as  all  nnsweet: 
Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
The  eternal  soul  from  all  beside ; 

And  I  shall  know  him  when  we  meet: 

And  we  shall  sit  at  endless  feast, 
Enjoying  each  the  other's  good: 
What  vaster  dream  can  hit  the  mood 

Of  Love  on  earth?    He  seeks  at  least 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


118 


Upon  th«  last  and  abarpMt  h«lght, 
Bcfoni  Ui«  aplrlu  fiid«  away, 
Some  Undliij^i>lace  to  clasp  and  Mjr, 

"Kanwtlll   We  Iom  onnelrea  In  lli^k" 

XLVII. 

Ir  that*  brtaf  lays  of  Sorrow  born, 
Were  taken  to  be  each  as  dosed 
Orave  doobts  and  anawers  here  propottd. 

Then  these  n*ere  sacb  aa  men  might  scorn: 

Her  care  Is  not  to  part  and  prove ; 
She  takea,  when  harsher  moods  remit. 
What  slender  shade  of  doubt  may  flit, 

And  makes  it  Tamal  unto  lovo : 

And  hence,  indeed,  she  sports  with  words, 
Bnt  better  serves  a  wholesome  law. 
And  holds  it  sin  and  sbnme  to  draw 

The  deepest  measore  nrom  the  chords: 

Nor  dare  she  trust  a  larfi^r  \ny, 
Bnt  rather  loosens  ft'om  the  lip 
Short  swallow-flights  of  song,  that  dip 

Their  wings  in  tears,  and  skim  away. 

XLVIIL 

Frosi  art,  from  nnlnrc,  from  the  schools. 
Let  random  Influences  (jlanco, 
Like  light  in  mnny  a  ^blvcr'd  lance 

That  breaks  aboat  the  dappled  poolH: 

The  lightest  wave  of  thonght  shall  li£!p, 
The  fancy's  tenderest  eddy  wreathe, 
The  slightest  air  of  song  Bhall  breathe 

To  make  the  sullen  surface  crisp. 

And  look  thy  look,  and  go  thy  way, 
But  blame  not  thou  the  winds  that  make 
The  seeming-wanton  ripple  break, 

The  tender-pencil'd  shadow  play. 

Beneath  all  fancied  hopes  and  fears. 
Ay  me  1  the  sorrow  deepens  down, 
Whose  mnflSed  motions  blindly  drown 

The  bases  of  my  life  in  tears. 

XLIX. 

Be  near  me  when  my  light  is  low, 
When  the  blood  creeps,  and  the  nerves  prick 
And  tingle;  and  the  heart  is  sick, 

And  all  the  wheels  of  Being  slow. 

Be  near  me  when  the  sensnons  frame 
la  nick'd  with  pangs  that  conquer  trust: 
And  Time,  a  maniac  scattering  dust. 

And  Life,  a  Fury  slinging  flame. 

Be  near  me  when  my  faith  is  dry, 
And  men  the  flies  of  latter  spring, 
That  lay  their  eggs,  and  sting  and  sing. 

And  weave  their  petty  cells  and  die. 

Be  near  me  when  I  fade  away. 
To  point  the  term  of  human  strife. 
And  on  the  low  dark  verge  of  life 

The  twilight  of  eternal  day. 


Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 
Should  still  be  near  as  at  our  side? 
Is  there  no  baseness  we  would  hide? 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  ? 

Shall  he  for  whose  applause  I  strove, 
I  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame. 
See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden  shame, 

And  I  be  lesseu'd  in  his  love? 
8 


I  wrong  the  grave  with  fears  nntnie  t 
Shall  love  be  blamed  for  want  of  (kith  f 
Then  most  be  wisdom  with  great  Death : 

The  dead  shall  look  me  thro'  and  thro'. 

Be  near  as  when  wo  climb  or  (kll : 
Te  watch,  like  Ood,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger  other  eyes  than  oura, 

To  make  allowance  for  us  alL 

U. 

I  OAMMOT  love  thee  as  I  ought. 
For  love  reflects  the  thing  beloved : 
My  words  are  only  words,  and  moved 

Upon  the  topmost  froth  of  thought 

"  Tet  blame  not  thou  thy  plaintive  song," 
The  Spirit  of  true  lovo  replied  ; 
"Thou  canst  not  move  me  from  thy  side, 

Nor  human  frailty  do  me  wrong. 

"What  keeps  a  spirit  wholly  true 

To  that  ideal  which  he  bears? 

What  record  7  not  the  sinless  years 
That  breathed  beneath  the  Syrian  blue: 

"So  tret  not,  like  an  idle  girl,      • 
That  life  is  dosh'd  with  flecks  of  sin. 
Abide :  thy  wealth  is  gnther'd  in, 

When  Time  hath  sunder'd  shell  from  pearl." 

LIL 

now  many  a  father  have  I  seen, 
A  sober  man  among  his  boys. 
Whose  youth  was  full  of  foolish  noise, 

Who  wears  his  manhood  hale  and  green: 

And  dare  we  to  this  fancy  give, 
That  had  the  wild-oat  not  been  sown. 
The  soil,  left  barren,  scarce  bad  grown 

The  grain  by  which  a  man  may  llvet 

O,  if  we  held  the  doctrine  sound 
For  life  outliving  heats  of  youth. 
Yet  who  would  preach  it  as  a  troth 

To  those  that  eddy  round  and  round  f 

Hold  thou  the  good:  deflne  it  well: 

For  fear  divine  Philosophy 

Should  push  beyond  her  mark,  and  be 
Procuress  to  the  Lords  of  Hell. 

Lin. 

O  VET  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill. 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet; 

That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd, 

Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 
When  God  hnth  made  the  pile  complete; 

That  not  a  worm  Is  cloven  in  vain; 

That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 

Is  shrivell'd  In  a  fruitless  Are, 
Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold  we  know  not  anything ; 

I  can  bnt  trast  that  good  shall  fall 

At  last— far  off— at  last,  to  all, 
And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  rans  my  dream :  bnt  what  am  1 1 

An  infant  crying  in  the  niirht : 

An  Infant  crying  for  the  lii^ht: 
And  with  no  language  but  a  cry.      • 


114 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


LIV. 

Thb  wifih,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul  i 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams? 
So  careful  of  the  type  t<he  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Iler  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 
And  fiilllng  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  ap  to  God, 

I  stretch  lame  bands  of  faith,  and  grope. 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all. 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 

•  LV. 

"  So  careful  of  the  type  t"  but  no. 
From  scarped  cliflT  and  quarried  stone 
She  cries,  "A  thousand  types  are  gone: 

I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

"Thou  makcst  thine  appeal  to  me: 
I  bring  to  life,  I  bring  to  death : 
The  spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath : 

I  know  no  more."    And  he,  shall  he, 

Man,  her  last  work,  who  sccm'd  so  fair. 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  bis  eyes. 
Who  roll'd  the  psalm  to  wintry  skies. 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fhiltless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed, 
And  love  Creation's  final  law,— 
Tho'  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With  ravin,  shriek'd  against  bis  creed, — 

Who  loved,  who  suffer'd  countless  ills, 
^VlIo  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dost, 

Or  seal'd  within  the  iron  bills  T 

No  more?    A  monster  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.    Dragons  of  the  prime. 
That  tare  efich  other  in  their  slime. 

Were  mellow  music  match'd  with  him. 

O  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail ! 

O  for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and  bless! 

What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress  ? 
Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 

LVL 

Pkaoe;  come  away:  the  song  of  woe 
Is  after  all  an  earthly  song: 
Peace;  come  away:  we  do  him  wrong 

To  sing  so  wildly :  let  us  go. 

Come ;  let  ns  go :  your  checks  are  pale ; 
But  half  my  life  I  leave  behind  : 
Methinks  my  friend  is  richly  shrined: 

But  I  shall  pass ;  my  work  will  faiL 

Yet  In  these  ears,  till  hearing  dies. 
One  set  slow  bell  will  seem  to  toll 
The  passing  of  the  sweetest  soul 

That  ever  look'd  with  human  eyes. 


I  hear  it  now,  and  o'er  aud  o'er. 

Eternal  greetings  to  the  dead ; 

And  "Ave,  Ave,  Ave,"  said, 
"  Adieu,  adieu,"  forevermore. 

LVIL 
In  those  sad  words  I  took  farewell: 

Like  echoes  in  sepulchral  halls, 

As  drop  by  drop  the  water  falls 
In  vaults  and  catacombs,  they  fell ; 

And,  falling,  idly  broke  the  peace 
Of  hearts  that  beat  from  day  to  day, 
Half  conscious  of  their  dying  clay, 

And  those  cold  crypts  where  they  shall  cease. 

The  high  Muse  answer'd:  "Wherefore  grieve 

Thy  brethren  with  a  fruitless  tear  ? 
■     Abide,  a  little  longer  here, 
Aud  thou  shalt  take  a  nobler  leave." 

LVIII. 

O  SosBOw,  wilt  thou  live  with  me. 
No  casual  mistress,  but  a  wife. 
My  bosom-Mend  and  half  of  life ; 

As  I  confess  it  needs  must  be; 

O  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  rule  my  blood, 
Be  sometimes  lovely  like  a  bride. 
And  put  thy  harsher  moods  aside, 

If  thou  wilt  have  me  wise  and  good. 

My  centred  passion  cannot  more, 

Nor  will  it  lessen  from  to-day; 

But  I'll  have  leave  at  times  to  play 
As  with  the  creature  of  my  love ; 

And  set  thee  forth,  for  thou  art  mine, 
Wltli  so  much  hope  for  years  to  come, 
That,  bowso«'er  I  know  thee,  some 

Could  hardly  tell  what  name  were  thine. 

LIX. 

Us  past :  a  soul  of  nobler  tone : 
My  spirit  loved  and  loves  him  yet. 
Like  some  poor  girl  wboafe  heart  Is  set 

On  one  whose  rank  exceeds  her  own. 

He  mixing  with  his  proper  sphere. 
She  finds  the  baseness  of  her  lot, 
naif  Jealous  of  she  knows  not  what, 

And  envying  all  that  meet  him  there. 

The  little  village  looks  forlorn ; 
She  sighs  amid  her  narrow  days. 
Moving-  about  the  household  ways. 

In  that  dark  bonce  where  she  was  t>om. 

The  foolish  neighbors  come  and  go. 
And  tease  her  till  the  day  draire  by : 
At  night  she  weeps,  "  How  vain  am  I ! 

How  should  he  love  a  thing  so  low  ?" 

LX. 
If,  In  thy  second  state  sublime. 

Thy  ransom'd  reason  change  replies 

With  all  the  circle  of  the  wise. 
The  perfect  flower  of  human  time ; 

And  if  thou  cast  thine  eyes  below, 
How  dimly  character'd  and  slight, 
How  dwarrd  a  growth  of  cold  and  night, 

How  blanch'd  with  darkness  must  I  grow ! 

Yet  turn  thee  to  the  doubtfbl  shore, 
Where  thy  fii-st  form  was  made  a  man ; 
I  loved  thee.  Spirit,  and  love,  nor  can 

The  soul  of  Shakespeare  love  thee  more. 


IN  MEBfORIAM. 


UA 


LXL 

Tno*  if  va  qr*  that  *•  downwmrd  cut 
Gould  make  thM  Mmewhat  blench  or  fkll, 
Then  be  my  lore  an  idle  Ule, 

And  Aiding  legend  of  the  pait; 

And  thou,  as  one  that  once  declined 
When  bo  wiM  little  more  than  boy, 
On  aumo  unworthy  heart  with  Joy, 

But  liToa  to  wed  an  equal  mind; 

And  breathe*  a  noTel  world,  the  while 

Hia  other  paaaion  wholly  die*. 

Or  in  the  light  of  deeper  eyea 
Is  matter  for  a  flying  smile. 

LXII. 

T«T  pity  for  a  horse  o'cr-driven, 
And  love  ih  which  my  hound  has  part, 
Can  hang  no  weight  upon  my  licart 

In  Its  assumptions  np  to  heaven  ; 

And  I  am  so  much  more  than  these, 
Aa  thou,  perchance,  art  more  than  I, 
And  yet  I  spare  them  sympathy. 

And  I  would  set  their  paina  at  case. 

So  mayst  thoa  watch  me  where  I  wreep, 
As,  unto  Taster  motions  bound. 
The  circuits  of  thine  orbit  ronnd 

A  higher  height,  a  deeper  deep. 

LXIII. 

Dost  thon  look  back  on  whnt  b.itb  been, 

Aa  some  divinely  gifted  man, 

Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 
And  on  a  simple  village  green  ; 

Who  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  bar. 
And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy  chance, 
And  breasts  the  blows  of  circumstance. 

And  grapples  with  his  evil  star ; 

Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known. 
And  lives  to  elatcb  the  golden  keys, 
To  mould  a  mighty  state's  decrees. 

And  shape  the  wbiripcr  of  the  throne ; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher. 
Becomes  on  Fortune's  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope. 

The  centre  of  a  world's  desire ; 

Yet  feels,  aa  in  a  pensive  dream. 
When  all  his  active  powers  are  still, 
A  distant  deamess  In  the  hill, 

A  secret  sweetness  iu  the  stream, 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate. 
While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  play'd  at  counsellors  and  kings. 

With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate ; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea 
And  reaps  the  lat>or  of  his  hands. 
Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands: 

"  Does  my  old  friend  remember  me  ?'* 

LXIV. 
Sweet  soul,  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt; 

I  lull  a  fancy  trouble-tost 

With  "Love's  too  precious  to  be  lost, 
A  little  grain  shall  not  be  split" 

And  in  that  solace  can  I  sing. 
Till  out  of  paiufhl  phases  wronght 
There  flutters  up  a  happy  thought. 

Self-balanced  on  a  lightsome  wing: 


Since  we  deserved  the  name  of  Mends, 

And  thine  efl'ect  so  lives  In  me, 

A  part  of  mine  may  live  in  thee, 
And  move  thcc  on  to  noble  ends. 

I.XV. 

Yon  thought  my  heart  too  far  diseased; 

Yon  wonder  when  my  fhneies  play 

To  find  me  gay  among  the  gay, 
Like  one  with  any  trifle  pleased. 

The  ahade  by  which  my  Ufa  was  crost. 
Which  makes  a  desert  In  the  mind. 
Has  made  me  Idndly  with  my  kind. 

And  like  to  him  whose  sight  is  lost ; 

Whose  Ibet  are  guided  thro*  the  land. 
Whose  Jest  amont;  bis  friends  is  tne, 
Who  takes  the  children  on  his  knee^ 

And  winds  their  curls  about  his  band : 

ne  plays  with  threads,  he  beats  his  chair 
For  paatime,  dreaming  of  the  sky ; 
His  inner  day  can  never  die. 

His  night  of  loss  is  always  there." 

LXVL 

When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  fails, 

I  know  that  iu  thy  place  of  rest. 

By  that  broad  water  of  the  west, 
There  comes  a  glory  on  the  walls : 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears, 

As  slowly  steals  a  silver  flame 

Along  the  letters  of  thy  name. 
And  o'er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

The  mystic  glory  swims  away: 
From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies ; 
And,  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes, 

I  sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray : 

And  then  I  Icnow  the  mist  is  drawn 
A  lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast. 
And  in  the  dark  church,  like  a  ghost, 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  dawn. 

LXVII. 

WuEN  in  the  down  I  sink  my  head. 
Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,  times  my  breath  ; 
Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,  knows  not  Death, 

Nor  can  I  dream  of  thee  as  dead: 

I  walk  as  ere  I  walk'd  forlorn. 
When  all  our  path  was  fresh  with  dew, 
And  all  the  bugle  breezes  blew 

Reveilloe  to  the  breaking  mom. 

But  what  is  this  7    I  turn  about, 
I  And  a  trouble  in  thine  eye, 
Which  makes  me  sad,  I  know  not  why, 

Xor  can  my  dream  resolve  the  doubt: 

But  ere  the  lark  hath  left  the  lea 

I  wake,  and  I  discern  the  tmth ; 

It  is  the  trouble  of  my  youth 
That  foolish  sleep  transfers  to  thee. 

LXVIIL 

I  dkbam'd  there  would  be  Spring  no  more. 
That  Nature's  ancient  power  was  lost : 
The  streets  were  black  with  smoke  and  frost, 

They  chatter'd  trifles  at  the  door  : 

I  wander'd  fW)m  the  noisy  town, 
I  found  a  wood  with  thorny  boughs : 
I  took  the  thorns  to  bind  my  brows, 

I  wore  them  like  a  civic  crown : 


116 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


I  met  with  scoffs,  I  met  with  Bcorna 

From  youth  and  babe  and  hoary  hairs: 
.  They  call'd  me  in  the  public  squares 
The  fool  that  wears  a  crown  of  thorns: 

They  call'd  me  fool,  they  call'd  me  child : 

I  found  an  angel  of  the  night ; 

The  voice  was  low,  the  look  was  bright ; 
lie  look'd  upon  my  crown  and  smiled : 

He  reach'd  the  glory  of  a  hand. 
That  secm'd  to  touch  it  into  leaf: 
The  voice  was  not  the  voice  of  grief; 

The  words  were  hard  to  understand. 

LXIX. 

I  CANNOT  see  the  features  right. 
When  on  the  gloom  I  strive  to  paint 
The  face  I  know ;  the  hnes  are  faint 

And  mix  with  hollow  masks  of  night ; 

Clond-towera  by  ghostly  masons  wrought, 
A  gulf  that  ever  shuts  and  gapes, 
A  hand  that  points,  and  palled  shapes 

In  shadowy  thoroughfares  of  thought ; 

Aud  crowds  that  stream  from  yawning  doors, 
And  shoals  of  puckcr'd  faces  drive ; 
Dark  bulks  that  tumble  half  alive. 

And  lazy  lengths  on  boundless  shores: 

Till  all  at  once  beyond  the  will 

I  hear  a  wizard  music  roll. 

And  thro'  a  lattice  on  the  soul 
Looks  thy  fnir  face  and  makes  it  stilL 

LXX. 

Slxep,  kinsman  thou  to  death  and  trance 
And  madness,  thou  hast  forged  at  last 
A  night-loug  Present  of  the  Past 

lu  which  we  went  thro'  summer  France. 

Iladst  thou  such  credit  with  the  soalf 
Then  bring  an  opiate  trebly  strong, 
Drug  down  the  blindfold  scusc  of  wrong 

That  so  my  pleasure  may  be  whole ; 

Willie  now  we  talk  as  once  we  talk'd 
Of  men  and  minds,  the  dust  of  change. 
The  days  tliat  grow  to  something  strange. 

In  walking  as  of  old  we  walk'd 

Beside  the  river's  wooded  reach. 
The  fortress,  and  the  mountain  ridge, 
The  cataract  flashing  ft-om  the  bridge, 

The  breaker  breaking  on  the  beach. 

LXXI. 

RisEST  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again. 
And  howlest,  issuing  out  of  night. 
With  blasts  that  blow  the  poplar  white. 

And  lash  with  storm  the  streaming  pane? 

Day,  when  my  crown'd  estate  begun 
To  piue  in  that  reverse  of  doom, 
Which  Bickcn'd  every  living  bloom, 

And  blurr'd  the  splendor  of  the  sun ; 

Who  usherest  in  the  dolorous  hour 
With  thy  quick  tears  that  make  the  rose 
Pull  sideways,  and  the  daisy  close 

Her  crimson  fringes  to  the  shower ; 

Who  might'st  have  heaved  a  windless  flame 
Up  the  deep  East,  or,  whispering,  play'd 
A  chequer-work  of  beam  and  shade 

Along  the  hills,  yet  looked  the  same, 


As  wan,  as  chil),  as  wild  as  now ; 
Day,  mark'd  as  with  some  hideous  crime 
When  the  dark  hand  struck  down'  thro'  time, 

And  cancell'd  nature's  best:  but  thou. 

Lift  as  thou  mayst  thy  burtheu'd  brows 
Thro'  clouds  that  drench  the  morning  star. 
And  whirl  the  ungarner'd  sheaf  afar, 

Aud  sow  the  sky  with  flying  boughs. 

And  up  thy  vault  with  roaring  sound 
Climb  thy  thick  noon,  disastrous  day ; 
Touch  thy  dull  goal  of  joyless  gray, 

And  hide  thy  shame  beneath  the  ground. 

LXXIL 

So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do, 
So  little  done,  such  things  to  be, 
How  know  I  what  had  need  of  thee, 

For  then  wert  strong  as  thou  wert  true  t 

The  fame  is  qnench'd  that  I  foresaw, 
The  head  bath  miss'd  an  earthly  wreath: 
I  curse  not  nature,  no,  nor  death ; 

For  nothing  is  that  errs  fkx>m  law. 

We  pass ;  the  path  that  each  man  trod 
Is  dim,  or  will  be  dim,  with  weeds: 
What  fame  is  left  for  human  deeds 

In  endless  age?    It  rests  with  God. 

0  hollow  wraith  of  dying  fame. 
Fade  wholly,  while  the  soul  exultf. 
And  self-infolds  the  large  results 

Of  force  that  would  have  forged  a  name. 

LXXIII. 

As  sometimes  In  a  dead  man's  face. 
To  those  that  watch  it  more  and  more, 
A  likeness,  hardly  seen  before. 

Comes  out— to  some  one  of  his  race : 

So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold, 
I  see  thee  what  then  art,  and  know 
Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  ISelow, 

Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old. 

But  there  is  more  than  I  can  see, 
And  what  I  see  I  leave  nnsaid. 
Nor  speak  it,  knowing  Death  has  made 

Ilis  darkness  beantiftal  with  thee. 

LXXIV. 

1  LKATi  thy  praises  unezpress'd 

In  verse  that  brings  myself  relief 

And  by  the  measure  of  my  grief 

I  leave  thy  greatness  to  be  guess'd; 

What  practice  howsoe'er  expert 
In  fitting  aptest  words  to  thing^ 
Or  voice  the  richest-toned  that  sings 

Hath  power  to  give  thee  as  thou  wertf 

I  care  not  in  these  fading  days 
To  raise  a  cry  that  lasts  not  long. 
And  round  thee  with  the  breeze  of  song 

To  stir  a  little  dust  of  praise. 

Thy  leaf  has  perish'd  in  the  green. 
And,  while  we  breathe  beneath  the  sun, 
The  world  which  credits  what  is  done 

Is  cold  to  all  that  might  have  been. 

So  here  shall  silence  guard  thy  fame ; 

But  somewhere,  out  of  human  view, 

Whate'er  thy  hiinds  are  set  to  do 
Is  wrought  with  tumult  of  acclaim. 


IN  BCBMORIAM. 


117 


LXXV. 

Taki  wing*  of  tMcj,  and  aaceod, 
And  in  >  moment  set  thy  flico 
Where  all  the  starry  henvent  of  tpaee 

Are  tharpen'd  to  a  needle's  end  ; 

Tike  wings  of  toraalghl;  lighten  thro* 
The  secular  abyaa  to  come, 
And  lo,  thy  deepest  lays  are  dumb 

Before  the  mouldering  of  a  yew; 

And  if  the  matin  songs,  that  woke 
The  darkness  of  our  planet,  last. 
Thine  own  shall  wither  in  the  rast, 

Sre  half  the  lifetime  of  an  oak. 

Ere  these  have  clothed  their  branchy  bowers 
With  fifty  Hays,  thy  songs  are  vain ; 
And  what  are  they  when  these  remain 

The  min'd  shells  of  hollow  towers  f 

LXXVL 

What  hope  Is  here  for  modem  rhyme 
To  him  who  tnms  a  musing  eye 
On  songs,  and  deeds,  and  lives,  that  lie 

Foreshorten'd  in  the  tract  of  time  t 

These  mortal  lullabies  of  pain 
Hay  bind  a  book,  may  line  a  box. 
May  serre  to  curl  a  maiden's  lockJs ; 

Or  when  a  thousand  moons  shall  wane 

A  man  upon  a  stall  may  find, 
And,  p.-ussiiig,  turn  the  page  thnt  tells 
A  grief,  then  changed  to  something  else, 

Sung  by  a  long-forgotten  mind. 

But  what  of  that  f  My  darken'd  ways 
Shall  ring  with  music  all  the  same; 
To  breathe  my  loss  is  more  than  fame, 

To  nttcr  love  more  sweet  than  praise. 

LXXVIL 
AoAD*  at  Christmas  did  we  weave 

The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth ; 

The  silent  saow  possess'd  the  earth, 
And  calmly  fell  our  Christmas-eve: 

The  ynle-dog  sparkled  keen  with  frost, 
No  wing  of  wind  the  region  swept. 
But  over  all  things  brooding  slept 

The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost 

As  in.  the  winters  left  behind. 
Again  our  ancient  games  had  place, 
The  mimic  picture's  breathing  grace. 

And  dance  and  song  and  hoodman-blind. 

Who  show'd  a  token  of  di-itress  f 
No  single  tear,  no  mark  of  pain  : 

0  sorrow,  then  can  sorrow  wane  t 
O  grief,  can  grief  be  changed  to  less  t 

O  last  regret,  regret  cau  die  1 
No, — mixt  with  all  this  mystic  f^ame. 
Her  deep  relations  are  the  same, 

But  with  long  ose  her  tears  are  dry. 

LXXmi. 
"More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me," 
Let  this  not  vex  thee,  noble  heart ! . 

1  know  thee  of  what  force  thou  art 
To  hold  the  costliest  love  in  fee. 

But  thou  and  I  are  one  in  kind. 
As  moulded  like  in  nature's  mint; 
And  hill  and  wood  and  field  did  print 

The  same  sweet  forms  in  either  mind. 


For  ns  the  same  cold  streamlet  curl'd 
Thro'  all  his  eddying  oores ;  the  same 
AU  winds  that  roam  the  twilight  came 

In  whispers  of  the  b««nt«ow  world. 

At  one  dear  knee  we  protnw'd  vowa, 
One  lesson  fkt>m  one  book  we  leam'd, 
Bre  childhood's  flaxen  ringlet  tnm'd 

To  black  and  brown  on  kindred  browfc 

And  so  my  wealth  resembles  thine. 
But  he  was  rich  where  I  was  poor. 
And  he  sipplied  my  want  the  more 

As  his  unllkeness  fitted  mine. 

LXXIX. 

Ir  any  Tagne  desire  should  rise. 
That  holy  Death  ere  Arthur  died 
Had  moved  me  kindly  ftam  his  side. 

And  dropt  the  dust  on  tearless  eyes; 

Then  fancy  shapes,  as  fancy  can. 
The  grief  my  loss  in  him  bad  wrought, 
A  grief  as  deep  as  life  or  thought. 

But  stAy'd  in  peace  with  Qod  and  man. 

I  make  a  picture  In  the  brain ; 

I  hear  the  sentence  that  be  speaks; 

He  bears  the  burthen  of  the  weeks ; 
But  turns  bis  burthen  into  gain. 

His  credit  thus  shall  set  me  free ; 
And,  influence-rich  to  soothe  and  save, 
Unused  example  tmm  the  grave 

Beach  out  dead  hands  to  comfort  me. 

LXXX. 

CouLn  I  have  said  while  he  was  here, 
"My  love  shall  now  no  further  range; 
There  cannot  come  a  mellower  change, 

For  now  is  love  mature  in  ear." 

Love,  then,  had  hope  of  richer  store : 
What  end  is  here  to  my  complaint? 
This  haunting  whisper  makes  me  faint, 

"More  years  had  made  me  love  thee  more." 

But  Death  returns  an  answer  sweet: 
"My  sudden  fh>st  was  sudden  gain. 
And  gave  all  ripeness  to  the  grain 

It  might  have  drawn  fh>m  after-heat. " 

LXXXI. 

I  WAOs  not  any  fend  with  Death 
For  changes  wrought  on  form  and  fiEkce ; 
No  lower  life  that  earth's  embrace 

May  breed  with  him  can  fright  my  fhith. 

Eternal  process  moving  on, 

From  state  to  state  the  spirit  walks; 

And  these  are  bnt  the  sbatter'd  stalks. 
Or  ruin'd  chrysalis  of  one. 

Nor  blame  I  Death,  because  he  bare 
The  use  of  virtue  out  of  earth: 
I  know  transplanted  hnman  worth 

Will  bloom  to  profit,  otherwhere. 

For  this  alone  on  Death  I  wreak 
The  wrath  that  gamers  in  my  heart ; 
He  put  our  lives  so  tu  apart 

We  cannot  hear  each  other  speak. 

LXXXIL 
Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 
O  sweet  new-year,  delaying  long: 
Thou  doest  expectant  nature  wrong; 
Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 


118 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


What  stays  thee  from  the  cloaded  noous, 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place? 
Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 

Or  eadneas  in  the  summer  moons? 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire, 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dash'd  with  flery  dew, 

Labaruums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

0  thou,  new-year,  dela)ring  long, 
Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood. 
That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud, 

And  flood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 

LXXXIIL 

WnEN  I  contemplate  all  alone 
The  life  that  bad  been  thine  below, 
And  fix  my  thoughts  on  all  the  glow 

To  which  thy  crescent  would  have  grown ; 

1  see  thee  sitting  crown'd  with  good, 
A  central  warmth  diffusing  bliss 

In  glance  and  smile,  and  clasp  and  kise. 
On  all  the  branches  of  thy  blood ; 

Thy  blood,  my  friend,  and  partly  mine ; 
For  now  the  day  was  drawing  on 
When  thou  shonldst  link  thy  life  with  one 

Of  mine  own  bouse,  and  boys  of  thine 

Had  babbled  "  Uncle  "  on  my  knee ; 
But  that  remorseless  iron  hour 
Made  cypress  of  her  orange-flower, 

Despair  of  Hope,  and  earth  of  tbee. 

I  seem  to  meet  their  least  desire, 
To  clap  their  checks,  to  call  them  mine. 
I  see  their  unborn  faces  shine 

Beside  the  never-lighted  fire. 

I  see  myself  an  honor'd  guest, 
Thy  partner  in  the  flowery  walk 
Of  letters,  genial  table-talk. 

Or  deep  dispute,  and  gracefbl  Jest ; 

While  now  thy  prosperous  labor  fills 
The  lips  of  men  with  honest  praise, 
And  sun  by  sun  the  happy  day» 

Descend  below  the  golden  hills 

With  promise  of  a  mom  as  fair ; 
And  all  the  train  of  bounteous  hours 
Conduct  by  paths  of  growing  powers 

To  reverence  and  the  silver  hair; 

Till  slowly  worn  her  earthly  robe. 
Her  lavish  mission  richly  wrought. 
Leaving  great  legacies  of  thought. 

Thy  spirit  should  fall  from  off  the  globe ; 

What  time  mine  own  might  also  flee, 
As  link'd  with  thine  in  love  and  fate, 
And,  hovering  o'er  the  dolorous  strait 

To  the  other  shore,  involved  in  thee, 

Arrive  at  last  the  blessed  goal. 
And  He  that  died  in  Holy  Land 
Would  reach  us  out  the  shining  hand, 

And  take  us  as  a  single  soul. 

What  reed  was  that  on  which  I  leant? 
Ah,  backward  fancy,  wherefore  wake 
The  old  bitterness  again,  and  break 

The  low  beginnings  of  content  ? 


LXXXIV. 

TniB  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and  pall, 
I  felt  it,  when  I  sorrow'd  most, 
'T,  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all 

O  true  In  word,  and  tried  In  deed, 
Demanding  so  to  bring  relief 
To  this  which  is  our  common  grief. 

What  kind  of  life  is  that  I  lead ; 

And  whether  trust  in  things  above 
Be  dimm'd  of  sorrow  or  sustain'd ; 
And  whether  love  for  him  have  drain'd 

My  capabilities  of  love ; 

Your  words  have  virtue  such  as  draws 
A  faithful  answer  from  the  breast. 
Thro'  light  reproaches,  half  exprest. 

And  loyal  unto  kindly  laws. 

My  blood  an  even  tenor  kept, 
Till  on  mine  ear  this  message  falls, 
That  in  Vienna's  fatal  walls 

Ood's  finger  tonch'd  him,  and  be  slept 

The  great  IntelUgencea  tait 
That  range  above  oar  mortal  state. 
In  circle  round  the  blessed  gate. 

Received  and  gave  him  welcome  there ; 

And  led  him  thro'  the  blissful  climes. 
And  show'd  him  In  the  fountain  fresh 
AH  knowledge  that  the  sons  of  flesh 

Shall  gather  In  the  cycled  times. 

But  I  remain'd,  whoee  hopes  were  dJm, 
Whose  life,  whose  thoughts  were  little  worth; 
To  wander  on  a  darken'd  earth. 

Where  all  things  round  me  breathed  of  him. 

O  friendship,  equal-poised  control, 
O  heart,  with  kindliest  motion  warm, 

0  sacred  essence,'  other  form, 
O  solemn  ghost,  O  crowned  soul  I 

Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I, 
How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
The  sense  of  human  will  demands. 

By  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 

1  felt  and  feci,  tho'  left  alone, 
His  being  working  in  mine  own. 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine ; 

A  life  that  all  the  Muses  deck'd 
With  gifts  of  grace,  that  might  express 
All<omprehen8ive  tenderness, 

All-subtUlzing  Intellect; 

And  so  my  passion  hath  not  swerved 
To  works  of  weakness,  but  I  find 
An  image  comforting  the  mind. 

And  in  my  grief  a  strength  reserved. 

Likewise  the  imaginative  woe. 
That  loved  to  handle  spiritual  strife, 
Diflhsed  the  shock  thro'  all  my  life, 

But  in  the  present  broke  the  blow. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 
For  other  friends  that  once  I  met; 
Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 

The  mighty  hopes  that  make  us  men. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


119 


I  won  your  lore:  I  coant  U  crime 

To  mouru  for  any  overmuch : 

I,  tbo  divided  half  of  aiich 
A  frlendataip  M  had  mastcr'd  Time ; 

Which  mastera  Time  indeed,  and  to 

Btemalt  separate  ttom  fears : 
The  aUwuaumluK  moutha  and  yean 

Can  take  no  part  away  ttota  thto : 

But  Summer  on  the  ateamlng  floods, 
Aud  Spring  that  sweUs  the  narrow  brooks, 
And  Autumn,  with  a  noise  of  rooks, 

That  gather  in  the  waning  woods. 

And  erery  pulse  of  wind  and  wave 
Recall^  in  change  of  light  or  gloom, 
My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

Aud  my  prime  passion  in  the  grave : 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb,  *| 
A  part  of  stillness,  yearns  to  Ipeak: 
"  Arise,  and  get  thee  forth  and  seek 

A  friendship  for  the  years  to  come. 

"  I  watch  thee  trom  the  quiet  shore : 
Thy  xpirit  up  to  mine  can  reach; 
Uut  in  dear  words  of  human  speech 

Wc  two  communicate  no  more." 

And  I,  "  Can  clouds  of  nature  stain 
The  starry  clearness  of  the  free  1 
now  is  It?    Canst  thou  feel  for  me 

Some  painless  sympathy  with  pain?" 

And  lightly  docs  the  whisper  full: 
"  T  Is  hard  for  thee  to  fathom  this : 
I  triumph  in  conclusive  bliss. 

And  that  serene  result  of  all." 

So  hold  I  commerce  with  the  dead : 
Or  so  methiuks  the  dead  would  say; 
Or  so  shall  grief  with  symbols  play, 

And  pining  life  be  fancy-fed. 

Now  looking  to  some  settled  end. 
That  these  things  pass,  and  I  shall  prove 
A  meeting  somewhere,  love  with  love, 

I  crare  your  pardon,  O  my  friend ; 

If  not  so  firesh,  with  love  as  tme, 

I,  clasping  Ijrotbcr-hands,  aver 

I  could  not,  if  I  would,  transfer 
The  whole  1  felt  for  him  to  you- 

For  which  be  they  that  hold  opart 
The  promise  of  the  golden  hours  f 
First  love,  first  friendship,  equal  powers. 

That  marry  with  the  virgin  heart. 

Still  mine,  that  cannot  but  deplore. 
That  beats  within  a  lonely  place. 
That  yet  remembers  his  embrace, 

But  at  bis  footstep  leaps  no  more. 

My  heart,  tho'  widow'd,  may  not  rest 
Quite  in  the  love  of  what  Is  gone. 
But  seeks  to  beat  in  time  with  one 

'rhat  warms  another  living  breast 

Ah,  take  the  imperfect  gift  I  bring. 
Knowing  the  primrose  yet  Is  dear, 
The  primrose  of  the  later  year. 

As  not  unlike  to  that  of  Spring. 

LXXXV. 

SwzKT  after  showers,  ambrosial  air. 
That  rollttt  fh>m  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  erening  over  brake  and  bloom 

And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 


The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 
Thro'  all  tho  dewy.tasMU'd  wood. 
And  shadowing  down  th«  homad  flood 

In  ripploa,  hu  my  brows  and  blow 

Tlio  (bver  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 
The  fhll  new  life  that  feeds  thy  breath 
Throughout  my  fhime,  till  Doubt  and  Defttb, 

III  brethren  let  the  fancy  fly 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 
On  leagues  of  odor  streaming  tkr, 
To  where  in  yonder  orient  star 

A  hundred  spirits  whisper  "Peace," 

LZXXVI. 
I  PAST  beside  the  reverend  walls 

In  which  of  old  I  wore  tbo  gown  ; 

I  roved  at  random  thro'  the  town, 
And  saw  the  tumult  of  the  haUs ; 


Aud  heard  once  more  In  college  Ctnes 
The  storm  tliclr  bigh-bullt  organs 
Aud  thunder-music,  rolling,  shake 

The  prophets  blason'd  on  the  panes ; 


And  caught  once  more  the  distant  sbont, 
The  measured  pulse  of  racing  oars 
Among  the  willows;  paced  the  shores 

And  many  a  bridge,  and  all  about 

The  same  gray' flats  again,  and  felt 
The  same,  but  not  the  same ;  aud  last 
Up  that  long  walk  of  limes  I  post 

To  see  the  rooms  in  which  he  dwelt. 

Another  name  was  on  the  door: 
I  linger'd ;  all  within  was  noise 
Of  songs,  and  clapping  hands,  and  boys 

That  crasb'd  the  glass  and  beat  the  floor; 

Where  once  we  held  debate,  a  band 
Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and  art. 
And  labor,  and  the  changing  mart. 

And  all  the  framework  of  the  land ; 

When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair, 
But  send  it  slackly  from  the  string; 
And  one  would  pierce  an  outer  ring. 

And  one  an  inner,  here  aud  there ; 

And  last  the  master-bowman,  he 
Would  cleave  the  mark.    A  willing  ear 
We  lent  him.    Who,  but  hung  to  hear 

The  rapt  oration  flowing  free 

From  point  to  point,  with  power  and  grace 
Aad  music  in  the  bounds  of  lav. 
To  those  conclusions  when  we  saw 

The  God  within  him  light  his  Cue, 

And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  aifd  glow 

In  azure  orbits  heavenly-wise; 

And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 
The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo. 

LXXXVIL 

Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet. 
Rings  Eden  thro*  the  budded  quicks, 
O  tell  me  where  th(  senses  mix, 

O  tell  me  where  the  passions  meet. 

Whence  radiate :  fierce  extremes  employ 
Thy  spirits  in  the  darkening  leaf. 
And  in  the  midmost  heari  of  grief 

Thy  passion  clasps  a  secret  Joy : 


120 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  I — my  harp  would  prelude  woe— 
I  cannot  all  command  the  strings: 
The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 

LXXXVIIL 

WiTcn-ELMs  that  counterchange  the  floor 
Of  this  flat  lawn  with  dusk  and  bright; 
And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth  and  height 

Of  foliage,  towering  sycamore ; 

How  often,  hither  wandering  down. 
My  Arthur  found  your  shadows  fair. 
And  shook  to  all  the  liberal  air 

The  dust  and  diu  and  steam  of  town : 

He  brought  an  eye  for  nil  he  saw ; 

He  mixt  in  all  our  simple  sports ; 

They  pleased  him,  fresh  from  broiling  coarts 
And  doBty  porlieoB  of  the  law. 

O  Joy  to  him  in  this  retreat, 
Immantled  in  ambrosial  dark, 
To  drink  the  cooler  air,  and  mark 

The  landscape  winking  thro'  the' beat: 

O  sonnd  to  ront  the  brood  of  cares, 
The  sweep  of  scythe  in  morning  dew. 
The  gust  that  round  the  garden  flew. 

And  tumbled  half  the  mellowing  pears ! 

O  bliss,  when  all  in  circle  drawn 
Abont  blm,  heart  and  ear  were  fed 
To  hear  liim,  as  he  lay  and  read 

The  Tuscan  poet  on  the  lawn: 

Or  in  the  all-golden  afternoon 

A  gnest,  or  happy  sister,  sung, 
■  Or  here  she  brought  the  harp  and  flnng 
A  ballad  to  the  brightening  moon: 

Nor  less  It  pleased  in  livelier  moods. 
Beyond  the  bounding  hill  to  stray. 
And  break  the  livelong  summer  day 

With  banquet  in  the  distant  woods ; 

Whereat  we  glanced  from  theme  to  theme, 
Discuss'd  the  books  to  love  or  hate. 
Or  touch'd  the  changes  of  the  state, 

Or  threaded  some  Socratlc  dream ; 

But  if  I  praised  the  busy  town. 
He  loved  to  rail  against  it  still, 
For  "ground  in  yonder  social  mill, 

We  rub  each  other's  angles  down, 

"And  merge,"  he  said,  "in  form  and  gloss 
The  picturesque  of  man  and  man."     « 
We  talk'd :  the  stream  beneath  us  ran. 

The  wine-flask  lying  couch'd  In  moss. 

Or  cool'd  withlh  the  glooming  wave; 

And  last,  returning  from  afar. 

Before  the  crimson-circled  star 
Had  fall'n  into  her  father's  grave. 

And  brushing  ankle-deep  in  flowers. 
We  heard  behind  the  woodbine  veil 
The  milk  that  bubbled  in  the  pail, 

And  bnzzings  of  the  honeyed  hoars. 

LXXXIX. 

He  tasted  love  with  half  his  mind. 
Nor  ever  drank  the  inviolate  spring 
Where  nighest  heaven,  who  flrst  could  fling 

This  bitter  seed  among  mankind ; 


That  could  the  dead,  whose-  dying  eyes 
Were  closed  with  wail,  resume  their  life. 
They  would  but  find  in  child  and  wife 

An  iron  welcome  when  they  rise : 

'T  was  well,  indeed,  when  warm  with  wine. 
To  pledge  them  with  a  kindly  tear. 
To  talk  them  o'er,  to  wish  them  here, 

To  count  their  memories  half  divlue ; 

But  if  they  came  who  passed  away, 
Behold  their  brides  in  other  hands ; 
The  hard  heir  strides  about  their  lands; 

And  will  not  yield  them  for  a  day. 

Yea,  tho*  their  sons  were  none  of  these. 
Not  less  the  yet-loved  sire  would  make 
Confasion  worse  than  death,  and  shake 

The  pillars  of  domestic  peace. 

Ah  dear,  bi#come  thou  bade  to  me: 
Whatever  change  the  years  have  wrought, 
I  And  not  yet  one  lonely  thought 

That  cries  against  my  wish  for  thee. 

XC. 

When  rosy  plnmelets  tnft  the  larch. 
And  rarely  pipes  the  mounted  thrush ; 
Or  andemeath  the  barren  bush 

Fllta  by  the  sea-blue  bird  of  March ; 

Come,  wear  the  form  by  which  I  know 
Thy  spirit  in  time  among  thy  peers ; 
The  hope  of  unaccomplish'd  years 

Be  large  and  lacld  round  thy  brow. 

When  summer's  honrly-mcllowing  change 
May  breathe,  with  many  roses  sweet, 
Upon  the  thousand  waves  of  wheat. 

That  ripple  round  the  lonely  grange ; 

Come :  not  in  watches  of  the  night. 
Bat  where  the  sunbeam  broodeth  warm. 
Come,  beaateooB  In  thine  after  form, 

And  like  a  finer  light  in  light 

XCI. 

If  any  vision  should  reveal 
Thy  likeness,  I  might  count  it  rain. 
As  bat  the  canker  of  the  brain ; 

Tea,  tho'  it  spake  and  made  appeal 

To  chances  where  onr  lots  were  cast 
Together  in  the  days  behind.* 
I  might  but  say,  I  bear  a  wind 

Of  memory  murmuring  the  past 

Tea,  tho'  it  spake  and  bared  to  view 
A  fact  within  the  coming  year; 
And  tho'  the  months,  revolving  near, 

Should  prove  the  phantom-warning  true. 

They  might  not  seem  thy  prophecies. 

But  spiritual  presentiments. 

And  such  refraction  of  events 
As  often  rises  ere  they  rise. 

XCII. 

I  SHALL  not  see  thee.    Dare  I  say 
No  spirit  ever  brake  the  band 
That  stays  him  from  the  native  land. 

Where  flrst  he  walk'd  when  claspt  in  clayf 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost. 
But  he,  the  Spirit  himself,  may  come 
Where  all  the  nerve  of  sense  is  numb ; 

Spirit  to  Spirit,  Ghost  to  Ghost 


IN  MEMOIIIAM. 


V2l 


O,  theraibra  from  thy  •ighU««  nag* 
With  god*  In  unconjectared  bUM| 
O,  from  tho  cllvtance  of  th«  abyaa 

Of  tvuruld-cumpllottod  cbauge, 

Deaeend,  and  toncb,  and  enter :  heiir 
Th«  wtoh  too  airuut;  for  words  to  nnmo; 
That  In  thia  blludiieiw  of  tho  fhuM 

Mj  Qhoet  may  fool  that  ibino  U  near. 

xcin. 

now  pnre  at  heart  and  soaud  tn  head, 

With  what  diviue  aflRtctloua  bold, 

Should  be  tho  man  whoM  thought  wotUd  hold 
An  hour's  communion  with  tho  dead. 

• 
In  vain  ahnlt  thon,  or  any,  call 

The  spirits  from  their  golden  day. 

Except,  like  them,  thou  too  canst  saj, 
Mj  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 

Tb«7  haunt  the  silence  of  the  breast, 

Imaginations  calm  and  fair. 

The  memory  like  a  cloudlcos  air, 
The  conscience  as  a  sea  at  rest: 

But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din, 
And  doubt  boxidc  the  portal  waits, 
They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates, 

And  bear  the  household  Jar  within. 

XCIV. 

Bt  night  we  linj^r'd  on  the  lawn. 

For  underfoot  the  herb  was  dry; 

And  Rcniiil  warmth ;  an(J  o'er  the  sky 
The  silvery  haze  of  summer  drawn ; 

Ana  calm  that  let  the  tapers  bum 
Unwavering:  not  a  cricket  chlrr'd: 
The  brook  alone  f;ir-off  was  heard. 

And  on  the  board  the  fluttering  urn : 

And  bats  went  ronnd  in  fragrant  skies. 
And  wheel'd  or  lit  the  flimy  shapes 
That  haunt  the  dusk,  with  ermine  capes 

And  woolly  breasts  and  beaded  eyes; 

While  now  we  sang  old  songs  that  peal'd 
From  knoll  to  knoll,  where,  couch'd  at  ease,* 
The  white  kinc  glimmer'd,  and  the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  tbe  field. 

Bnt  when  those  others,  one  by  one, 
Withdrew  themselves  from  me  and  night. 
And  in  the  house  light  after  light 

Went  out,  and  I  was  all  alone, 

A  hunger  seized  my  heart ;    I  read 
Of  that  glad  year  that  once  had  been. 
In  those  fall'n  leaves  which  kept  their  green, 

The  noble  letters  of  tbe  dead : 

And  strangely  on  the  silence  broke 
The  silent-speaking  words,  and  strange 
Was  love's  dumb  cry  defying  change 

To  teat  his  worth ;  and  strangely  spoke 

The  faith,  the  vigor,  bold  to  dwell 
On  doubts  that  drive  the  coward  back, 
And  keen  thro'  wordy  snares  to  track 

Suggestion  to  her  inmost  celL 

So  word  by  word,  and  line  by  line, 
Tbe  dead  man  touch'd  me  from  the  past. 
And  all  at  once  it  seem'd  at  last 

Ills  living  soul  was  flash'd  on  mine, 


And  mine  In  hla  vaa  woand,  and  whlrl'd 
Aboat  ampyreal  height*  of  tbonght. 
And  came  on  that  which  Is,  and  caught 

The  deep  pulaatious  of  the  world. 

iBonlan  mnsic  meaaoring  oat 

The  steps  of  Time,  the  shocks  of  Chaaee. 

The  blowa  of  Death.    At  lensth  my  trance 
Was  cancoli'd,  stricken  thro'  with  doubt. 

Vague  words !  bnt  ah,  how  hard  to  Arame 
In  matter-moulded  forms  of  siwecb. 
Or  cv'n  for  intellect  to  reach 

Thro'  memory  that  which  I  became : 

Till  now  the  doubtful  dusk  reveal'd 
The  knoll  once  more  where,  couch'd  at  ease, 
Tbe  white  kino  glimmcr'd,  and  the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arma  about  tbe  field : 

And,  suck'd  from  out  the  distant  gloom, 
A  breeze  began  to  tremble  o'er 
The  large  leaves  of  the  sycamore. 

And  fluctuate  ull  tbe  still  perfume, 

And  gathering  (Veshlicr  overhead, 
Rock'd  the  full-foliagcd  elms,  and  swung 
The  heavy-folded  cose,  and  flung 

The  lilies  to  and  fro,  and  said, 

"Tbe  dawn,  the  dawn,"  and  died  nway; 
And  East  and  West,  without  a  breath, 
Mixt  their  dim  lights,  like  life  and  death, 

To  broaden  into  boundless  day. 

xcv. 

YoD  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn. 
Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light-blue  eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies, 

You  tell  me,  donbt  is  Devil-boni. 

I  know  not :  one  indeed  I  knew 
In  many  a  subtle  question  versed, 
Who  touch'd  a  Jarring  lyre  at  first, 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true : 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  In  deeds, 

At  last  he  beat  bis  music  out. 

There  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt, 
Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

Ue  fought  his  doubts  aud  gather'd  strength. 
He  would  not  make  his  Judgment  blind, 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind 

And  laid  them:  thus  he  came  at  length 

To  find  a  stronger  faith  his  own ; 
And  Power  was  with  him  in  the  night, 
Which  makes  tbe  darkness  and  tbe  light. 

And  dwells  not  lu  tbe  light  alone, 

Bnt  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud. 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old. 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 

Altho'  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 

XCVL 

Mv  love  has  talk'd  with  rocks  and  trees; 
He  finds  on  misty  mountain-ground 
His  own  vast  shadow  glory-crown'd; 

He  sees  himself  In  all  he  sees. 

Two  partners  of  a  married  life,— 
I  look'd  on  these,  and  thought  of  thet 
In  vastness  and  in  my?ffenr. 

And  of  my  spirit  as  of  a  wife. 


122 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


These  two — they  dwelt  with  eye  ou  eye, 
Their  hearts  of  old  have  beat  iu  tuue, 
Their  meetings  made  December  June, 

Their  every  parting  was  to  die. 

Their  love  has  never  past  away; 
The  days  she  never  can  forget 
Are  earnest  that  he  loves  her  yet, 

Whate'er  the  faithless  people  say. 

Her  life  is  lone,  he  sits  apart, 
He  loves  her  yet,  she  will  not  weep, 
Tho'  rapt  in  matters  dark  and  deep 

He  seems  to  slight  her  simple  heart. 

He  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind. 
He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star. 
He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far. 

He  looks  so  cold:  she  thinks  him  kind. 

She  keeps  the  gift  of  years  before, 

A  witber'd  violet  is  her  bliss; 

She  knows  not  what  his  greatness  is: 
For  that,  for  all,  she  loves  him  more. 

For  him  she  plays,  to  him  she  sings 
Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows ; 
She  knows  but  matters  of  the  honse, 

And  he,  he  knows  a  thousand  things. 

Her  faith  Is  flxt  and  cannot  move, 
She  darkly  feels  him  great  and  wise, 
She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful  eyes, 

"  I  cannot  understand :  I  love." 

xcvn. 

Yon  leave  ns :  yon  will  see  the  Rhine, 
And  those  fair  hills  I  sail'd  below. 
When  I  was  there  with  him  ;  and  go 

Dy  summer  belts  of  wheat  and  vine 

To  where  he  breathed  his  latest  breath. 
That  City.    All  her  splendor  seems 
No  livelier  than  the  wisp  that  gleams 

On  Lethe  iu  the  eyes  of  I>catb. 

Let  her  great  Danube  rolling  fair 
Enwind  her  isles,  nnmark'd  of  me : 
I  have  not  seen,  I  will  not  see 

VIeuua;  rather  dream  that  there, 

A  treble  darkness,  Evil  hannts 

The  birth,  the  bridal ;  fHend  fi-om  friend 

Is  oftener  parted,  fathers  bend 
Above  more  graves,  a  thousand  wants 

Gnarr  at  tho  heels  of  men,  and  prey 
By  each  cold  hearth,  and  sadness  flings 
Her  shadow  on  the  blaze  of  kings : 

And  yet  myself  have  beard  him  say, 

That  not  in  any  mother  town 
.   With  statelier  progress  to  and  fro 
The  double  tides  of  chariots  flow 
By  park  and  suburb  under  brown 

Of  lustier  leaves;  nor  more  content. 
He  told  me,  lives  iu  any  crowd, 
When  all  is  gay  with  lamps,  and  loud 

With  sport  and  song,  in  booth  and  tent, 

Imperial  halls,  or  open  plain  ; 

And  wheels  the  circled  dance,  and  breaks 

The  rocket  molten  into  flakes 
Of  crimson  or  in  emerald  rain. 


xcvin. 

RiSEST  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again. 
So  loud  with  voices  of  the  birds. 
So  thick  with  lowlngs  of  the  herds. 

Day,  when  I  lost  the  flower  of  men ; 

Who  tremblest  thro'  thy  darkling  red 
On  yon  swoll'n  brook  that  bubbles  fast 
By  meadows  breathing  of  the  past. 

And  woodlands  holy  to  the  dead; 

Who  mnrmurest  in  the  foliagcd  caves 
A  song  that  slights  the  coming  care. 
And  Autumn  laying  here  and  there 

A  fiery  finger  on  the  leaves ; 

Who  wakenest  with  thy  balmy  breath. 
To  myriads  on  the  genial  earth. 
Memories  of  bridal,  or  of  birth. 

And  unto  myriads  more,  of  death. 

O,  wheresoever  those  may  be. 
Betwixt  the  slnmber  of  the  poles. 
To-day  they  count  as  kindr^  souls; 

They  know  me  not,  bnt  mourn  with  me. 

XCIX. 

I  cLiMu  the  hill :  f^ora  end  to  end 
Of  all  the  landscape  nndemeath, 
I  find  no  place  that  does  not  breathe 

Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend ; 

No  gray  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold. 
Or  low  morass  and  whispering  reed, 
Or  simple  stile  trom  mead  to  mead, 

Or  sheepwalk  op  tho  windy  wold ; 

No  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 
That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill. 
Nor  qnarry  treuch'd  along  the  hill, 

And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw; 

Nor  runlet  tinkling  from  the  rock: 
Nor  pastoral  rivulet  that  swerves 
To  left  and  right  thro'  meadowy  currea^ 

That  feed  the  mothers  of  the  flock ; 

Bnt  each  has  pleased  a  kindred  eye, 
And  each  reflects  a  kindlier  day; 
And,  leading  these,  to  pass  away, 

I  think  once  more  he  seems  to  die. 


TJjrwATcn'p,  the  garden  bough  shall  sway, 
The  tender  blossom  flutter  down, 
Unloved,  that  beech  will  gather  brown. 

This  maple  bam  itself  away ; 

Unloved,  the  sun-flower,  shining  fair, 
Ray  round  with  flames  her  disk  of  seed. 
And  many  a  rose-camatiod  feed 

With  summer  spice  the  humming  air ; 

Unloved,  by  many  a  sandy  bar. 
The  brook  shall  babble  down  the  plain. 
At  noon,  or  when  the  lesser  wain 

Is  twisting  round  the  polar  star; 

Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove. 
And  flood  the  haunts  of  hem  and  crake ; 
Or  into  silver  arrows  break 

The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove; 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 

A  fresh  association  blow. 

And  year  by  year  the  landscape  grow 
Familiar  to  the  stranger's  child ; 


IN.MEM0RIA5L 


1S8 


As  rear  by  jtu  the  laborer  UIU 
Hia  wonted  glebe,  or  Io|m  tbe  glades; 
And  jrear  by  year  onr  memory  Mm 

From  all  tbe  circle  of  tbe  hills. 

CI. 

Wb  leare  tbe  well-beloved  place 
Where  first  we  gaxed  upon  the  sky; 
Tbe  roofs,  that  heard  our  earliest  cry. 

Will  shelter  one  of  stranger  race. 

We  go,  bat  ere  we  go  from  home, 
As  down  tbe  garden-walks  I  more, 
Two  spirits  of  a  dtrerse  love 

Contend  for  loving  masterdom. 

One  whi8per^  here  thy  boyhood  sung 
Long  since  its  matin  song,  and  heard 
The  low  love-langaage  of  the  bird 

In  native  hasels  tassel4iang. 

The  other  answers,  "  Tea,  bat  here 
Thy  feet  have  strayed  in  after  hoars 
With  thy  lost  (t'lend  among  tbe  bowers. 

And  this  hath  made  them  trebly  dear." 

These  two  have  striven  half  tbe  day. 
And  each  prefers  his  separate  claim. 
Poor  rivals  in  a  losing  game, 

That  will  not  yield  each  other  way. 

I  tam  to  go:  my  feet  are  set 

To  leave  the  pleasant  fields  and  farms; 

They  mix  in  one  another's  arms 
To  one  pare  image  of  regret 

CII. 

On  that  Inst  night  before  we  went 
From  oat  the  doors  where  I  was  bred, 
I  dream'd  a  vision  of  the  dead, 

Which  left  my  after-morn  content 

Methonght  I  dwelt  within  a  hall, 
And  maidens  with  me :  distant  hills 
From  hidden  summits  fed  with  rills 

A  river  sliding  by  the  wolL 

The  hall  with  harp*  and  carol  rang. 
They  sang  of  what  is  wise  and  good 
And  graceful.    lu  the  centre  stood 

A  statue  veil'd,  to  which  they  sang; 

And  which,  tho'  veU'd,  was  known  to  me, 
Tbe  shape  of  him  I  loved,  and  love 
Forever:  then  flew  in  a  dove 

And  brought  a  summons  from  the  sea: 

And  when  they  learnt  that  I  must  go. 
They  wept  and  wail'd,  but  led  the  way 
To  where  a  little  shallop  lay 

At  anchor  in  the  flood  below ; 

And  on  by  many  a  level  mead. 
And  shadowing  bluff  that  made  the  bank?, 
We  glided  tvinding  under  ranks 

Of  iris,  and  the  golden  reed ; 

And  still  as  vaster  grew  the  shore. 
And  roH'd  the  floods  in  grander  space. 
The  maidens  gathered  strength  and  grace 

And  presence,  lordlier  than  be([)re ; 

And  I  myself,  who  sat  apart 

And  watch'd  them,  waz'd  in  every  limb ; 

I  felt  the  thews  of  Anakim, 
The  pnl«es  of  a  Titan's  heart ; 


As  one  would  sing  tlie  death  of  war. 
And  one  would  chant  the  history 
Of  that  great  race,  which  la  to  be, 

And  one  tbe  shaping  of  a  atar; 

Until  the  forward-creeping  tide* 
Began  to  foam,  and  we  to  draw, 
From  deep  to  deep,  to  where  we  MW 

A  great  ship  lift  her  shining  sides. 

Tbe  man  we  loved  was  there  on  deck. 
But  thrice  as  large  as  man  ho  bent 
To  greet  as.    Up  the  side  I  went. 

And  Ml  in  silence  on  his  neck : 

Whereat  those  maidens  with  one  mind 
Bewail'd  their  lot;  I  did  them  wrong: 
"  We  served  thee  here,"  they  said,  "  to  long. 

And  wilt  thoa  leave  ns  now  behind  1" 

So  rapt  I  was,  they  could  not  win 

An  answer  from  my  lips  but  he 

Replying,  "Enter  likewise  ye 
And  go  with  ns:"  they  entcr'd  In. 

And  while  the  wind  began  to  sweep 
A  music  out  of  sheet  and  abroad. 
Wo  steer'd  her  toward  a  crimson  clond 

That  landliko  slept  along  tlie  deep. 

cm. 

TuE  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ : 
The  moon  Is  bid,  the  night  is  still ; 
A  single  church  below  the  hill 

Is  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist 

A  single  peal  of  bells  below. 
That  wakens  at  this  hour  of  rest 
A  single  murmur  in  the  breast. 

That  these  are  not  the  bells  I  know. 

Like  strangers*  voices  here  they  sound. 
In  lands  where  not  a  memory  strays. 
Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other  days. 

But  all  Is  new  tmhallow'd  ground. 

CIV. 

Tais  holly  by  the  cottage-eavc, 
To-night,  ungather'd,  bball  it  stand : 
We  live  within  the  si  ranger's  land. 

And  strangely  falls  our  Christmas-eve. 

Our  father's  dust  is  left  alone 

And  silent  under  other  snows ; 

There  in  due  time  the  woodbine  blows. 
The  violet  comes,  but  we  are  gone. 

No  more  shall  wayward  grief  abase 
The  genial  hour  with  mask  and  mime; 
For  change  of  place,  like  growth  of  time. 

Has  broke  the  bond  of  dying  use. 

Let  cares  that  petty  shadows  cast 
By  which  our  lives  are  chiefly  proved, 
A  little  spare  the  night  I  loved. 

And  hold  it  solemn  to  the  past 

But  let  no  footstep  beat  the  floor. 
Nor  bowl  of  wassail  mantle  warm  ; 
For  who  wonld  keep  an  ancient  form 

Ttiro'  which  the  spirit  breathes  no  moref 

Be  neither  song,  nor  game,  nor  feast ; 

Nor  harp  be  touch'd,  nor  flute  be  blown ; 

No  dance,  no  motion,  save  alone 
What  lightens  in  the  lucid  east 


124 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Of  rising  worlds  by  yonder  wood. 

Long  sieeps  tlie  summer  in  the  seed; 

Run  out  your  measured  arcs,  and  lead 
The  closing  cycle  rich  in  good. 

CV. 

Ring  out  wild  bells  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  oat  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  enow : 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  miud, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  bo  more ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  canse, 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin. 
The  tulMesB  coldness  of  the  times ; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhyme*, 

But.  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  ont  falsb  pride  in  place  and  blood. 

The  civic  slander  and  the  spite ; 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease ; 

Ring  ont  the  narrowing  lost  of  gold ; 

Ring  ont  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  In  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand  ; 
Ring  ont  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

CVX 

It  Is  the  day  when  he  was  bom, 

A  bitter  day  that  early  sank 

Behind  a  purple-frosty  bank 
Of  vapor,  leaving  night  forlorn. 

The  time  admits  not  flowers  or  leaves 
To  deck  the  banquet  Fiercely  flies 
The  blast  of  North  and  East,  and  ice 

Hakes  daggers  at  the  sharpen'd  eaves, 

And  bristles  all  the  brakes  and  thorns 
To  yon  hard  crescent,  as  she  hangs 
Above  the  wood  which  grides  and  clangs 

Its  leafless  ribs  and  iron  horns 

Together,  in  the  drifts  that  pass 

To  darken  on  the  rolling  brine 

That  breaks  the  coast.    But  fetch  the  wine. 
Arrange  the  board  and  brim  the  glass; 

Bring  in  great  logs  and  let  them  lie. 

To  make  a  solid  core  of  heat ; 

Be  cheerful-minded,  talk  and  treat 
Of  all  things  ev'n  as  he  were  by ; 

We  keep  the  day.    With  festal  cheer. 
With  books  and  music,  surely  we 
Will  drink  to  him  whate'er  he  be. 

And  sing  the  songs  he  loved  to  hear. 


CVIL 
I  WILL  not  shut  me  from  my  kind. 

And,  lest  I  stiffen  into  stone, 

I  will  not  eat  my  heart  alone, 
Kor  feed  with  sighs  a  passing  wind: 

What  profit  lies  in  barren  faith. 
And  vacant  yearning,  tho'  with  might 
To  scale  the  heaven's  highest  height. 

Or  dive  below  the  wells  of  Death  t 

W^hat  find  I  in  the  highest  place, 
But  mine  own  phantom  chanting  hymns? 
And  on  the  depths  of  death  there  swims 

The  reflex  of  a  human  face. 

I  '11  rather  take  what  fruit  may  be 
Of  sorrow  under  human  skies : 
'T  is  held  that  sorrow  makes  ns  wise, 

Whatever  wisdom  sleep  with  thee. 

CVIIL 
HEAST-ArrLUCNOB  in  discursive  talk 

From  household  fountAlns  never  dry; 

The  critic  clearness  at  an  eye, 
That  saw  tbro'  all  the  Hoses'  walkj 

Seraphic  Intellect  and  force 

To  seixe  and  throw  the  doubts  of  man; 

Impasblou'd  logic,  which  outran 
The  hearer  in  Its  fiery  coarse; 

High  nature  amorous  of  the  good, 
Bat  touch'd  with  no  ascetic  gloom; 
And  passion  pore  in  snowy  bloom 

Thro'  all  the  years  of  April  blood ; 

A  love  of  freedom  rarely  felt. 
Of  freedom  in  her  regal  seat 
Of  England ;  not  the  school-boy  heat, 

The  blind  hysterics  of  the  Celt ; 

And  manhood  fused  %vith  female  grace 
In  snch  a  sort,  the  child  would  twine 
A  trastfhl  hand,  nnask'd,  in  thine, 

And  find  his  comfort  in  thy  face ; 

All  these  have  been,  and>  thee  mine  eyes 
Have  look'd  on :  if  they  look'd  in  vain, 
Hy  shnme  is  greater  who  remain. 

Nor  let  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 

CIX. 

Tiir  converse  drew  us  with  delight, 
The  men  of  rathe  and  riper  years : 
The  feeble  sonl,  a  haunt  of  fears, 

Forgot  his  weakness  in  thy  sight 

On  thee  the  loyal-hearted  hung. 
The  proud  was  half  disarm'd  of  pride. 
Nor  cared  the  serpent  at  thy  side 

To  flicker  with  his  double  tongue. 

The  stem  were  mild  when  thou  wert  by. 
The  flippant  put  himself  to  school 
And  heard  thee,  and  the  brazen  fool 

Was  soften'd,  and  he  knew  not  why ; 

While  I,  thy  dearest,  sat  apart 
And  felt  thy  triumph  was  as  mine ; 
And  loved  them  more,  that  they  were  thiue. 

The  gracefurta-it,  the  Christian  art; 

Not  mine  the  sweetness  or  the  skill 
But  mine  the  love  that  will  not  tire. 
And,  bom  of  love,  the  vftgne  desire 

That  spars  an  imitative  wllL 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


1S5 


ex. 

Tui  churl  In  q>lrlt,  np  or  down 
Along  tha  Male  of  rank*,  tbro'  all, 
To  him  who  graapa  a  golden  ball, 

By  blood  a  kine,  at  boait  a  clown ; 


The  churl  in  spirit,  bowe'er  he  veil 
Ilia  want  in  furma  for  (lublon'a 
Will  lot  bi"  coltish  nature  break 

At  aeaaona  thro'  the  gilded  pale : 


For  who  can  always  act  1  but  he, 
To  whom  a  thousand  memories  call, 
Not  being  less  but  more  than  all 

The  gentleness  he  scem'd  to  be. 

Beat  seem'd  the  thing  he  was,  and  Joiu'd 
Each  ofllrc  of  the  social  hour 
To  noble  manners,  ns  the  flower 

And  native  growth  of  noble  mind ; 

Kor  ever  narrowness  or  spite. 
Or  Tillaln  fiincy  fleeting  by, 
Drew  In  the  expression  of  an  eye. 

Where  God  and  Nature  met  in  light; 

And  thus  he  bore  without  abuse 
The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman. 
Defamed  by  every  charlatan, 

And  soil'd  with  all  ignoble  nse. 

CXL 

Hion  wisdom  holds  my  wisdom  less, 
That  I,  wfto  gaxe  with  temperate  eyes 
On  glorious  iusufBciencies, 

Set  light  by  narrower  perfectnesa. 

But  thou,  that  flllest  all  the  room 
Of  all  my  love,  art  reason  why 
I  seem  to  cast  a  careless  eye 

On  souls,  the  lesser  lords  of  doom. 

For  what  wert  thou  T  some  novel  power 
Sprang  up  forever  at  a  touch. 
And  hope  could  never  hope  too  much. 

In  watching  thee  from  hour  to  hour. 

Large  elements  in  order  brought. 
And  tracts  of  calm  from  tempest  made, 
And  world-wide  fluctuation  sway'd 

In  vassal  tides  that  follow'd  thought. 

CXIL 

T  IS  held  that  sorrow  makes  ns  wise; 
Tet  how  much  wisdom  sleeps  with  thee 
Which  not  alone  had  guided  me, 

Bnt  served  the  seasons  that  may  rise ; 

For  can  I  doubt  who  knew  thee  keen    ■ 
In  intellect,  with  force  and  skill 
To  strive,  to  fashion,  to  fulfil — 

I  doubt  not  what  thou  wonldst  have  been : 

A  life  in  civic  action  warm, 
A  soul  on  highest  mission  sent, 
A  potent  voice  of  Parliament, 

A  pillar  steadfast  in  the  storm. 

Should  licensed  boldness  gather  force, 
Becoming,  when  the  time  has  birth, 
A  lever  to  uplift  the  earth 

And  roll  it  in  another  course, 

With  thousand  shocks  that  come  and  go. 
With  agonies,  with  energies, 
With  overthrowings,  and  with  cries,    • 

And  undulations  to  and  fh>. 


CXIll. 

Who  lores  not  Knowledge  t    Who  shall  rail 
Against  her  beauty?    May  she  mix 
With  men  and  prus|M*r !    Who  shall  fls 

Iler  pillars  t    Lot  her  work  prevail. 

But  on  her  forehead  sits  a' Are: 
She  seta  her  forward  countenanca 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance, 

Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 

Half-grown  as  yet,  a  child,  and  vain. 
She  cannot  flght  the  fear  of  deatlu 
What  is  she,  cut  from  love  and  faith, 

But  some  wild  Pallas  ft-om  the  bralu 

Of  Demons  ?  flcry-hot  to  burst 
All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 
For  power.    I/Ct  bcr  kn<iw  her  place; 

She  is  the  second,  not  the  lint. 

A  higher  hand  must  make  her  mild. 
If  all  be  not  in  vain ;  and  guide 
Her  fo<^tep8,  moving  side  by  side 

With  wisoom,  like  the  younger  child : 

For  she  is  earthly  of  the  mind. 
But  Wisdom  heavenly  of  the  sonU 
O  friend,  who  camest  to  thy  goal 

So  early,  leaving  mo  behind, 

I  would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee. 
Who  grewest  not  alone  in  power 
And  knowledge,  but  by  year  and  hoar 

In  reverence  and  in  charity. 

CXIV, 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
^ow  bourgeons  every  maze  of  qnick 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long. 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue. 
And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blae 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea. 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale. 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea; 

Where  now  the  seamcw  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  gleaming  green,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their  sky 

To  build  and  brood ;  that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land  :  and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too;  and  my  regret 
Biecomes  an  April  violet. 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest 

CXV. 

Is  it,  then,  regret  for  bnrled  time 
That  kccnlier  in  sweet  April  wake!>, 
And  meets  the  year,  and  gives  and  takes 

The  colors  of  the  crescent  prime? 

Not  all ;  the  songs,  the  stirring  air. 
The  life  re-orient  ont  of  dust. 
Cry  thro'  the  sense  to  hearten  trust 

In  that  which  made  the  world  so  fair. 

Not  all  regret:  the  face  will  shine 

Upon  me,  while  I  muse  alone ; 

And  that  dear  voice  I  once  have  known 
Still  speak  to  me  of  me  and  mine : 


126 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Yet  less  of  sorrow  lives  in  me 
For  days  of  liappy  commune  dead  ; 
Less  yearning  for  tlie  friendship  fled, 

Than  some  strong  bond  wlilch  is  to  be. 

CXVL 

O  DAYS  and  hours,  your  work  is  this, 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place, 
A  little  while  from  his  embrace. 

For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss ; 

That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 
Desire  ot  nearness  doubly  sweet: 
And  unto  meeting  when  wc  meet, 

Delight  a  hundred-fold  accrue, 

For  every  grain  of  sand  that  runs, 
And  every  span  of  shade  that  steals, 
And  every  kiss  of  toothed  wheels. 

And  all  the  courses  of  the  suns. 

CXVII, 

CoNTEMPLATR  all  thls  work  of  Time, 
The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth  ^ 
THoT  dream  of  human  love  and  truth, 

Ab  dying  Nature's  earth  and  lime ; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 

Are  breathers  ot  an  ampler  day, 

Forever  nobler  ends.    They  say, 
The  solid  earth  whereon  wc  tread  « 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began, 
And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms, 
The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms. 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man ; 

Who  throve  and  branch'd  trom  clime  to  clime 
The  herald  of  a  higher  race,  , 

And  of  himself  In  blgbei  place 

If  so  he  typo  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more  r 
Or,  crown'd  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  bis  course,  and  show 

That  life  is  not  as  Idle  ore, 

But  Iron  dug  from  central  gloom. 
And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears. 
And  dipt  in  baths  of  hissing  tears. 

And  batter'd  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.    Arise  and  fly 
The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast ; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast. 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 

CXVIIL 

DooBS,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 
So  quickly,  not  as  one  that  weeps 
I  come  once  more :  the  city  sleeps ; 

I  smell  the  meadow  In  the  street; 

I  hear  a  chirp  of  birds ;  I  see 

Betwixt  the  black  /i-onts  long-withdrawn 

A  lisht-blne  lane  of  early  davra. 
And  think  of  early  days  and  thee. 

And  bless  thee,  for  thy  lips  are  bland, 
And  bright  the  friendship  of  thine  eye : 
And  In  my  thoughts  with  scarce  a  sigh 

I  take  the  pressure  of  thine  hand. 

CXIX. 

I  TRtiST  I  have  not' wasted  breath; 
I  think  we  are  not  wholly  brain, 
Magnetic  mockeries;  not  in  vain, 

Like  Paul  with  beasts,  I  fought  with  Death ; 


Not  only  cunning  casts  in  clay : 
Let  Science  prove  we  are,  and  then 
What  matters  Science  unto  men. 

At  least  to  me  ?    I  would  not  stay. 

Let  him,  the  wiser  man  who  springs 
Uereafter,  up  from  childhood  shape 
His  action,  like  the  greater  ape. 

But  I  was  bom  to  other  things. 

cxx. 

Sad  Hesper  o'er  the  buried  sun. 
And  ready,  thou,  to  die  with  him. 
Thou  watchest  all  things  ever  dim 

And  dimmer,  and  a  glory  done : 

The  team  is  loosen'd  from  the  wain. 
The  beat  is  drawn  upon  the  shore ; 
Thon  llstenest  to  the  closing  door. 

And  life  Is  darken'd  in  the  brain. 

Bright  Phosphor,  fresher  for  the  night, 
By  thee  the  world's  great  work  Is  heard 
Beginning,  and  the  wakeful  bird : 

Behind  thee  comes  the  greater  light : 

The  market  boat  is  on  the  stream. 
And  voices  hail  it  from  the  brink; 
Thon  hear'st  the  village  hammer  clink. 

And  see'st  the  moving  of  the  team. 

Sweet  Hesper-Phosphor,  double  name 
For  what  la  one,  the  first,  the  last, 
Thon,  like  my  present  and  mj^ast. 

Thy  place  is  changed ;  thon  art  the  same. 

CXXI. 

O,  WAST  thoa  with  me,  dearest,  then. 
While  I  rose  up  against  my  doom, 
And  yeam'd  to  burst  the  folded  gloom. 

To  bare  the  eternal  Heavens  again. 

To  feel  once  more,  in  placid  awe. 

The  strong  imagination  roll 

A  sphere  of  stars  about  my  soul, 
In  all  her  motion  one  with  law. 

If  thou  wert  with  me,  and  the  grave 
Divide  us  not,  be  with  me  now. 
And  enter  In  at  breast  and  brow. 

Till  all  my  blood,  a  fuller  wave. 

Be  qulcken'd  with  a  livelier  breath, 

And  like  an  inconsiderate  boy. 

As  in  the  former  flash  of  joy, 
I  slip  the  thoughts  of  life  and  death ; 

And  all  the  breeze  of  Fancy  blows, 
And  every  dew-drop  paints  a  bow. 
The  wizard  lightnings  deeply  glow, 

And  every  thought  breaks  out  a  rose. 

CXXIL 

There  rolls  the  deep  where  greir  the  tree. 

O  earth,  what  changes  thou  hast  seen ! 

There  where  the  long  street  roars,  hath  been 
The  stillness  of  the  tentral  sea. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 
From  form  to  form,  and  nothing  stands ; 
They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands. 

Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  and  go. 

But  in  my  spirit  will  I  dwell. 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it  true ; 

For  tho'  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 
I  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 


m  MEMORIAIC. 


crxiiL 

TuAT  which  jn  dare  luvoke  to  bl«Mt 
Oar  dflwrest  fliltb ;  our  i;l*utlle«t  doabt; 
He,  Th«7,  One,  All ;  wttbiti,  wtibout ; 

Th«  Power  In  ditrkuoas  whom  we  gneaa ; 

I  found  Dim  not  in  world  or  ran, 
Or  eagle'a  wing,  or  insect's  eye: 
Nor  thro'  the  qnesttone  men  may  try, 

Tba  petty  cobwebs  we  have  span : 

If  e'er,  when  fliith  had  Adrn  asleep, 
I  heard  a  voice,  "Believe  no  more," 
And  beard  an  ever-breaking  shore 

That  tumbled  in  the  Qodless  deep ; 

A  warmth  within  the  breast  would  melt 
The  freesing  reason's  coldor  part, 
And  like  a  man  In  wrath  the  heart 

Stood  np  and  answcr'd,  "I  have  felt." 

No,  like  a  child  In  doubt  and  fear: 
But  that  blind  clamor  made  mo  wlso: 
Then  was  I  as  a  child  Uiat  cries, 

But,  cr)iug,  knows  bis  father  near ; 

And  what  I  am  beheld  again 
What  U,  and  no  man  understands ; 
And  ont  of  darkness  came  the  hands 

That  reach  thro'  nature,  mouldiug  men. 

CXXIV, 

Whatever  I  have  said  or  snnjr, 
Some  bitter  notes  my  harp  would  give, 
Yea,  tho'  there  often  secm'd  to  live 

A  contradiction  on  the  tongue, 

Yet  Hope  had  never  lost  her  youth ; 

She  did  but  look  thro'  dimmer  eyes ; 

Or  Love  but  play'd  with  gracious  lies 
Because  be  felt  so  flx'd  in  truth : 

And  if  the  song  were  fhll  of  care, 
He  breathed  the  spirit  of  the  song; 
And  if  the  words  were  sweet  and  strong, 

He  set  his  royal  signet  there ; 

Abiding  with  me  till  I  sail 
To  seek  thee  on  the  mystic  deeps, 
And  this  electric  force,  that  keeps 

A  thousand  pulses  dancing,  fail. 

cxxv. 

LovK  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King, 
And  in  his  presence  I  attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend, 

Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  Is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord, 
And  will  be,  tho'  as  yet  I  keep 
Within  his  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 

Kncompass'd  by  his  faithftil  guard. 

And  bear  at  times  a  sentinel 
Who  moves  about  fbom  place  to  place. 
And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space. 

In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 

CXXVI. 

Akb  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  and  form 
Be  sunder'd  in  the  night  of  fear: 
Well  roars  the  storm  to  those  that  hear 

A  deeper  voice  across  the  storm, 

Proclkiming  social  truth  shall  spread. 
And  justice,  ev'n  tho'  thrice  again 
The  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine 

Should  pile  her  barricades  with  dead. 


127 


Bot  iU  (br  him  that  WMM  •  erown. 
And  him,  tho  laiar,  to  hli  ngti 
They  tremble,  the  •nstaininf  crags; 

The  spires  of  ice  are  toppled  down, 

And  molten  up,  and  roar  in  flood ; 
Tho  fortress  crashes  fr«)m  on  high, 
Tho  bmt*  earth  lightens  to  the  sky,    . 

And  the  great  iBou  sinks  in  blood. 

And  compass'd  by  the  flres  of  Hell; 
While  thou,  dear  spirit,  happy  star, 
O'erlook'st  the  tnmolt  ftt>m  afar. 

And  smileat,  knowing  all  Is  weU. 

CXXVII. 

Tiir.  love  that  rose  on  stronger  wings, 
Unpalsied  when  we  met  with  Death, 
Is  comrade  of  the  lesser  faith 

That  sees  the  course  of  human  things. 

No  doubt  vast  eddies  in  the  flood 
Of  onward  time  shall  yet  bo  made. 
And  throned  races  may  degrade ; 

Yet,  O  ye  mysteries  of  good, 

Wild  Hours  that  fly  with  Hope  and  Tear, 
If  all  your  oflice  had  to  do 
With  old  result^  that  look  like  new; 

If  this  were  all  your  mission  here. 

To  draw,  to  sheathe  a  useless  sirord. 
To  fool  the  crowd  with  glorious  lies, 
To  cleave  a  creed  in  sects  and  cries, 

To  change  the  bearing  of  a  word. 

To  shift  an  arbitrary  power, 
To  cramp  the  student  at  his  desk. 
To  make  old  bareness  picturesque 

And  tuft  with  grass  a  feudal  tower; 

Why  then  my  scorn  might  well  descend 
On  you  and  yours.    I  see  In  part 
That  all,  as  In  some  piece  of  art. 

Is  toil  coOperant  to  an  end. 

CXXVIIL 
Dbab  fi-iend,  fA-  off,  my  lost  desire. 
So  far,  so  near  in  woe  and  weal ; 

0  loved  the  most,  when  most  I  feel 
There  Is  a  lower  and  a  higher; 

Known  and  unknown;  human,  divine: 
Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and  eye; 
Dear  heavenly  friend  that  canst  not  die, 

Mine,  mine,  forever,  ever  mine ; 

Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to  be; 

Love  deeplier,  darklier  understood ; 

Behold,  I  dream  a  dream  of  good. 
And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 

CXXIX. 

Tur  voice  is  on  the  rollfpg  air; 

1  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run; 
Thou  standcst  In  the  rising  sun. 

And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou  then  ?    I  caanot  guess ; 
But  tho'  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  diffhsive  power, 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less: 

My  love  involves  the  love  before ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now ; 

Tho'  mix'd  with  God  and.  Nature  Ihon, 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 


128 


IN  MEMORIAif. 


Far  oft'  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh ; 

I  have  thee  glill,  aud  I  rejoice ; 

I  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice ; 
I  shall  not  lose  thee  tho'  I  die. 

cxxx. 

O  i.tviNo  will  that  Shalt  endure 
When  all  that  seems  shall  sufl'cr  shock, 
Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 

Flow  thro'  our  deeds  and  make  them  pare, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
A  voice  as  nuto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  conquer'd  years 

To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trasts, 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control, 
The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved. 

And  all  we  flow  from,  sonl  In  soul. 


O  TBCE  and  tried,  so  well  and  long. 

Demand  not  thou  a  marriage  lay; 

In  that  it  Is  thy  marriage  day 
Is  music  more  than  any  song. 

Nor  have  I  felt  so  much  of  bliss 
Since  first  he  told  me  that  he  loved 
A  daughter  of  our  house ;  nor  proved 

Since  that  dark  day  a  day  like  this ; 

Tho'  I  since  then  have  nnmber'd  o'er 
Some  thrice  three  years:  they  went  and  came. 
Remade  tho  blood  and  changed  the  frame, 

And  yet  is  love  not  less,-  bat  more ; 

No  longer  caring  to  embalm 

In  dying  songs  a  dead  regret, 

Bat  like  a  statue  solid-set, 
And  moulded  In  colossal  calm. 

Regret  is  dead,  but  lore  is  more 
Than  in  the  summers  that  are  flown. 
For  I  myself  with  these  have  grown 

To  something  greater  than  before; 

Which  makes  appear  the  songs  I  made 
As  echoes  out  of  weaker  times. 
As  half  but  Idle  brawling  rhymes. 

The  sport  of  random  sun  and  shade. 

But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower, 
That  must  be  made  a  wife  ere  noon  t 
She  enters,  glowing  like  the  moon 

Of  Eden  on  its  bridal  bower : 

On  me  she  bends  her  blissful  eyes, 
And  then  on  thee ;  they  meet  thy  look 
And  brighten  like  the  star  that  shook 

Betwixt  the  palms  of  paradise. 

O  when  her  life  was  yet  in  bud. 

He  too  foretold  the  perfect  rose. 

For  thee  she  grew,  for  thee  she  grows 
Forever,  aud  as  fair  as  good. 

And  thou  art  worthy ;  full  of  power ; 
As  gentle  ;  liberal-minded,  great, 
Consistent;  wearing  all  that  weight 

or  learning  lightly  like  a  flower. 

But  now  set  out :  the  noon  is  near, 
And  I  must  give  away  the  bride; 
She  fears  not,  or  with  thee  beside 

And  me  behind  her,  will  not  fear; 


For  I  that  danced  her  on  my  knee. 
That  watch'd  her  on  her  nurse's  arm. 
That  shielded  ail  her  life  from  harm. 

At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee ; 

Now  waiting  to  be  made  a  wife, 
Her  feet,  my  darling,  on  the  dead ; 
Their  pensive  tablets  round  her  head, 

And  the  most  living  words  of  life 

Breathed  in  her  ear.    The  ring  is  on, 
The  "  wilt  thou,"  answer'd,  and  again 
The  "  wilt  thou  "  ask'd,  till  out  of  twain 

Her  sweet  "  I  will "  has  made  ye  one. 

Now  sign  your  names,  which  shall  be  read, 
Mute  symbols  of  a  joyfhl  morn. 
By  village  ejes  as  yet  unborn ; 

The  names  are  sign'd,  and  overhead 

Begins  the  clash  aud  clang  that  tells 
"The  joy  to  every  wandering  breeze ; 
.  The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the  trees 
Tho  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells. 

O  happy  hoar,  and  happier  hoars 
Await  them.    Many  a  merry  face 
Salutes  them— maidens  of  the  place. 

That  pelt  us  in  the  porch  with  flowers. 

O  happy  hoar,  behold  the  bride 
With  him  to  whom  her  hand  I  gave. 
They  leave  the  porch,  they  pan  the  grave 

That  luui  to-day  its  sunny  side. 

To-day  the  grave  is  bright  for  me, 
For  them  the  light  of  life  Increased, 
Who  stay  to  share  the  morning  feast. 

Who  rest  to-ulght  beside  the  sea. 

Let  all  my  genial  spirits  advance 
To  meet  and  greet  a  whiter  sun ; 
My  drooping  memory  will  not  shun 

The  foaming  gnpc  of  eastern  France. 

It  circles  ronnd,  and  fancy  plays. 
And  hearts  are  warm'd,  and  faces  bloom. 
As  drinking  health  to  bride  and  groom 

We  wish  them  store  of  happy  days. 

Nor  connt  me  all  to  blame  if  I 
Conjecture  of  a  stiller  guest. 
Perchance,  perchance,  among  the  rest, 

And,  tho'  in  silence,  wishing  Joy. 

But  they  mast  go,  the  time  draws  on, 
And  those  white-favor'd  horses  wait ; 
They  rise,  but  linger;  it  Is  late; 

Farewell,  we  kiss,  and  they  are  gone. 

A  shade  fulls  on  as  like  the  dark 
From  little  cloudlets  on  the  grass. 
But  sweeps  away  as  out  we  pass 

To  range  the  woods,  to  roam  the  park. 

Discussing  how  their  coartship  grew. 
And  talk  of  others  that  are  wed, 
And  how  she  look'd,  and  what  he  said. 

And  back  we  come  at  fall  of  dew. 

Again  the  feast,  the  speech,  the  glee. 
The  shade  of  passing  thought,  the  wealth 
Of  words  and  wit,  the  double  health. 

The  crowning  cup,  the  three-times-three, 


MAUD. 


1X9 


And  last  the  duoa;— till  I  ratlrat 
Dumb  U  that  tow«r  which  qwln  to  lond. 
Aud  high  In  hMven  th*  •trMmlng  cloud, 

And  on  the  downi  a  rialng  flro ; 

Aud  rlM,  O  moon,  ftt>m  yonder  down, 
TUI  orer  down  and  over  dale 
All  night  the  ahlnlng  rapor  aall 

And  paaa  the  allent-lighted  town, 

The  white-fliced  halls,  the  glancing  rilla. 
And  catch  at  every  mouiitnlu  head, 
And  o'er  the  (VitliM  timt  brunch  aud  epread 

Their  aleeplug  silver  thro'  tbo  hills; 

And  touch  with  shade  the  bridal  doom, 
With  lender  gloom  the  roof,  the  wall ; 
And  breaking;  let  the  Hpleiidor  fall 

To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores 

By  which  they  rest,  and  ocean  sounds. 
And,  star  and  system  rollinf;:  past, 
A  son]  shall  draw  from  out  the  vast 

And  strike  hla  being  Into  bonuds. 


And,  moTed  thro'  life  of  lower  phase, 
BaMit  In  nun,  be  bom  and  think. 
And  act  and  love,  a  cloaer  link 

Betwdxt  ns  and  the  crowning  race 

Of  thoae  that,  eye  to  eye,  shall  \ook 
On  knowledge:  under  whose  command 
la  Earth  and  Earth's,  and  in  their  baud 

Is  Natore  like  an  open  book; 

Mo  longer  half-akin  to  brute. 
For  all  we  thought  and  loved  and  did, 
And  hoped,  and  snflTer'd,  Ik  but  seed 

Of  what  In  them  Is  flower  aud  (hilt; 

Whereof  the  man,  that  with  me  trod 
This  planet,  was  a  noble  type 
Appearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe, 

That  fHend  of  mine  who  liret  in  Ood, 

That  Ood,  which  ever  lives  and  loves. 
One  God,  one  law,  one  element. 
And  one  far-ofl*  divine  event. 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moraa. 


MAUD,    AND    OTHER    POEMS 


MAUD. 

L 

L 

I  HATB  the  dreadftal  hollow  behind  the  little  wood, 
Its  Upe  in  the  field  above  are  dabbled  with  blood-red  heath. 
The  red-ribb'd  ledges  drip  with  a  silent  horror  of  blood, 
Aud  Echo  there,  whatever  is  ask'd  her,  answers  "  Death." 


For  there  in  the  ghastly  pit  long  since  a  body  was  found, 
His  who  had  given  me  life— O  father  1  O  Ood !  was  it  well  t— 
Mangled,  and  flatten'd,  and  crush'd,  and  dinted  into  the  ground: 
There  yet  lies  the  rock  that  fell  with  him  when  he  felL 

3. 

Did  he  fling  himself  down?  who  knows?  for  a  vast  speculation  had  fail'd. 
And  ever  he  mutter'd  and  madden'd,  and  ever  wann'd  with  despair, 
And  out  be  walk'd  when  the  wind  like  a  broken  worldling  wail'd, 
And  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruiu'd  woodlands  drove  thro'  the  air. 


I  remember  the  time,  for  the  roots  of  my  hair  were  stirr'd 
By  a  shuffled  step,  by  a  dead  weight  trail'd,  by  a  whispcr'd  fHght, 
And  my  pulses  closed  their  gates  with  a  shock  on  my  heart  as  I  heafd 
The  shrill-edged  shriek  of  a  mother  divide  the  shuddering  night. 


Tillany  somewhere !  whose  f    One  says,  we  arc  villains  alL 
Not  he :  his  honest  fame  shonid  at  least  by  roe  be  maintain'd : 
But  that  old  man,  now  lord  of  the  broad  estate  and  the  Hall, 
Dropt  off  gorged  from  a  scheme  that  had  left  us  flaccid  aud  drain'd. 


Why  do  they  prate  of  the  blessings  of  Peace  ?  we  have  made  them  a  curse. 

Pickpockets,  each  hand  lusting  for  all  that  is  not  its  own ; 

And  lust  of  gain.  In  the  spirit  of  Cain,  is  It  better  or  worse 

Than  the  heart  of  the  citizen  hissing  in  war  on  bis  own  hearthstone  t 

9 


130  MAUD. 


But  these  are  the  days  of  advance,  the  works  of  the  men  of  mind, 
When  who  but  a  fool  would  have  faith  in  a  tradesman's  ware  or  his  word? 
Is  it  pence  or  war  ?    Civil  war,  as  I  think,  and  that  of  a  kind 
The  viler,  as  underhand,  not  openly  bearing  the.  sword. 

8. 

Sooner  or  later  I  too  may  passively  take  the  print 

Of  the  golden  age— why  not  ?    I  have  neither  hope  nor  trast ; 

May  make  my  heart  as  a  millstone,  set  my  face  as  a  flint. 

Cheat  and  be  cheated,  and  die :  who  knows  t  we  are  ashes  and  dust 


Peace  sitting  nnder  her  olive,  and  slurring  the  days  gone  by. 
When  the  poor  are  hovell'd  and  hastled  together,  each  sex,  like  awiue, 
When  only  the  ledger  lives,  and  when  only  not  all  men  lie ; 
Peace  in  her  vineyard— yes  I— but  a  company  forges  the  wine. 

10. 

And  the  vitriol  madness  flushes  up  in  the  mtBan's  bead, 
Till  the  filthy  by-lane  rings  to  the  yell  of  the  trampled  wife. 
While  chalk  and  alum  and  plaster  are  sold  to  the  poor  for  bread. 
And  the  spirit  of  murder  works  In  the  very  means  of  life. 

11. 

And  Sleep  must  lie  down  arm'd,  for  the  villanons  centre-bits 
Grind  on  the  wakefhl  ear  in  the  hush  of  the  moonless  nights. 
While  another  is  cheating  the  sick  of  a  few  last  gasps,  as  be  sits 
To  pestle  a  poisou'd  poison  behind  his  crimson  lights. 

12. 

When  a  Mammonite  mother  kills  her  babe  for  a  bnrlal  fee, 
And  Timour-Mammon  grins  on  a  pile  of  children's  bones, 
Is  it  peace  or  war?  better,  war!  loud  war  by  land  and  by  ses. 
War  with  a  thousand  battles,  and  shaking  a  hundred  thrones. 

IS. 

For  I  trust  If  an  enemy's  fleet  came  yonder  round  by  the  hill, 
And  the  mxhing  battle-bolt  sang  fhim  the  three-decker  out  of  the  foam. 
That  Uie  smooth-fuced  snub-nosed  rogue  would  leap  tk'om  bis  counter  and  tUl, 
And  strike,  if  he  could,  were  it  but  with  bis  cheating  yardwand,  home — 


What !  am  I  raging  alone  as  my  father  raged  in  his  mood  ? 
Must  /  too  creep  to  the  hollow  and  dash  myself  down  and  die 
Rather  than  hold  by  the  law  that  I  made,  nevermore  to  brood 
On  a  horror  of  shatter'd  limbs  and  a  wretched  swindler's  lie  J 

16. 

Would  there  be  sorrow  for  mef  there  was  tow  in  the  passionate  shriek. 
Love  for  the  silent  thing  that  had  made  false  haste  to  the  grave- 
Wrapt  in  a  cloak,  as  I  saw  him,  and  thought  he  would  rise  and  speak 
And  rave  at  the  lie  and  the  liar,  ah  Ood,  as  he  used  to  rave. 

16. 

I  am  sick  of  the  Hall  and  the  hill,  I  am  sick  of  the  moor  and  the  main. 
Why  should  I  stay  f  can  a  sweeter  chance  ever  come  to  me  here  t 
O,  having  the  nerves  of  motion  as  well  as  the  nerves  of  pain. 
Were  it  not  wise  if  I  fled  from  the  place  and  the  pit  and  the  fear  f 


There  are  workmen  up  at  the  Hall :  they  are  coming  back  from  abroad ; 
The  dark  old  place  will  be  gilt  by  the  touch  of  a  millionnaire : 
I  have  heard,  I  know  not  whence,  of  the  singular  beauty  of  Maud ; 
I  play'd  with  the  girl  when  a  child;  she  promised  then  to  be  fair. 

18. 

Maud  with  her  venturous  climbings  and  tumbles  and  childish  escapes, 
Maud  the  delight  of  the  village,  the  ringing  joy  of  the  Hall, 
Maud  witli  her  sweet  purse-month  when  my  father  dangled  the  grapes, 
Maud  the  beloved  of  my  mother,  the  moon-faced  darling  of  all,- 


MAUD.  131 

If. 
What  U  nho  now  1    My  draanu  an  bad.    8h«  majr  bring  me  «  can*. 
No,  Uiero  in  flitter  Rtune  on  the  moor ;  she  will  let  me  alone. 
Thanks,  fur  the  (lend  beet  know*  •whether  woman  or  man  be  the  wotm. 
I  will  bury  myself  In  my  boolu,  and  the  OertI  may  pipe  to  hia  own. 

II. 
Long  have  I  elKh'd  for  a  calm :  Qod  ip-ant  I  may  And  It  at  last  I 
U  will  ncviT  be  bn>ken  by  Hand,  she  baa  Dellher  aavor  nor  salt, 
Uut  A  cold  and  clonr-cut  flMe,  as  I  found  when  her  carriage  paat, 
Perfectly  bcautinil:  lot  It  be  granted  hor:  where  la  the  lluiltf 
All  that  I  saw  (for  her  eyea  were  dowiica«t,  not  to  be  seen) 
Fiinltily  hullless.  Icily  regular,  splendidly  null, 
Dead  |>erfection,  no  more;  nothing  more,  If  it  had  not  been 
For  a  chance  of  travel,  a  paleness,  an  hoiir'M  defect  of  the  rose, 
Or  an  uuderlip,  yon  may  call  it  a  little  tuo  ri|>c,  too  fkill. 
Or  the  least  little  delicate  aqatline- curve  in  a  senslilvo  noae. 
Prom  which  I  escaped  heart-flree,  with  the  least  little  touch  of  apleen. 

IIL 
Cold  and  clcftr.<>ut  face,  why  cj)nie  yon  so  cmelly  meek, 
Breakini;  a  plumber  in  which  all  spleenful  folly  was  drown'd. 
Pale  with  the  golden  beam  of  an  eyelash  dead  on  the  cheek. 
Passionless,  pale,  cold  face,  star-sweet  on  a  gloom  profound ; 
Womanlike,  taking  revenge  too  deep  for  a  transient  wrong 
Done  but  In  thought  to  your  beauty,  and  ever  as  pale  as  before 
Growing;  and  fading  and  growing  upon  me  without  a  sound, 
I^uminous,  »;emUke,  ghostlike,  deathlike,  half  the  night  long 
Qrowlng  and  (lading  and  growing,  till  I  could  bear  it  no  more, 
Bnt  arose,  and  all  by  myself  in  my  own  dark  garden  ground, 
Listening  now  to  the  tide  in  its  broad-flung  shipwrecking  roar, 
Now  to  the  scream  of  a  madden'd  beach  dragg'd  down  by  the  wave, 
Walk'd  in  a  wintry  wind  by  a  ghastly  glimmer,  and  found 
The  shining  daffodil  dead,  and  Orion  low  in  his  grave. 

IV. 


A  MILLION  emeralds  break  fVom  the  ruby-budded  lime 
In  the  little  grove  where  I  sit — ah,  wherefore  cannot  I  be 
Like  things  of  the  season  gay,  like  the  bountiful  season  bland. 
When  the  far-off  sail  is  blown  by  the  breeze  of  a  softer  clime. 
Half-lost  in  the  liquid  azure  bloom  of  a  crescent  of  sea. 
The  silent  sapphire-spangled  marriage  ring  of  the  land  1 

2. 
Below  me,  there,  is  the  village,  and  looks  how  quiet  and  small ! 
And  yet  bubbles  o'er  like  a  city,  with  gossip,  scandal,  and  spite ; 
And  Jack  on  his  alehouse  bench  has  as  many  lies  as  a  Czar; 
And  here  on  the  landward  side,  by  a  red  rock,  glimmers  the  Hall ; 
And  up  in  the  high  Hall-garden  I  see  her  pass  like  a  light: 
Bnt  sorrow  seize  me  if  ever  that  light  be  my  leading  star ! 

3.  . 
When  have  I  bow'd  to  her  father,  the  wrinkled  head  of  the  race  1 
I  met  her  to-day  with  her  brother,  but  not  to  her  brother  I  bow'd ; 
I  bow'd  to  his  lady-sister  as  she  rode  by  on  the  moor; 
But  the  Are  of  a  foolish  pride  flash'd  over  her  beautiful  face. 
O  child,  yon  wrong  your  beauty,  believe  it,  In  being  so  proud: 
Your  father  has  wealth  well-gotten,  and  I  am  nameless  and  poor. 


I  keep  bnt  a  man  and  a  maid,  ever  ready  to  slander  and  steal; 

I  know  it,  and  smile  a  hard-set  smile,  like  a  stoic,  or  like 

A  wiser  epicurean,  and  let  the  world  have  its  way: 

For  nature  is  one  with  rapine,  a  harm  no  preacher  can  heal ; 

The  Mayfly  is  torn  by  the  swallow,  the  sparrow  spear'd  by  the  shrike. 

And  the  whole  little  wood  where  I  sit  is  a  world  of  plunder  and  prey. 

B. 
We  are  pnppets,  Man  in  his  pride,  and  Beauty  fiiir  in  her  flower ; 
Do  we  move  ourselves,  or  are  moved  by  an  unseen  hand  at  a  game 
That  pushes  us  off  fW)m  the  board,  and  others  ever  succeed  f 
.\h  yet,  we  cannot  be  kind  to  each  other  here  for  an  hour; 
We  whisper,  and  bint,  and  chuckle,  and  grin  at  a  brother's  shame ; 
ilowerer  we  brsTe  it  oat,  we  men  are  a  little  breed. 


132 


MAUD. 


6. 

A  monstrous  eft  was  of  old  the  Lord  and  Master  of  Earth, 
For  him  did  his  high  sun  flame,  and  his  river  billowing  ran. 
And  he  felt  himself  in  his  force  to  be  Nature's  crowning  raco. 
As  nine  months  go  to  the  shaping  an  inCunt  ripe  for  his  birth, 
So  many  a  million  of  ages  have  gone  to  the  making  of  man : 
He  now  is  flret,  but  is  he  the  last  ?  is  be  not  too  base  f 


The  man  of  science  himself  is  fonder  of  glory,  and  vain, 
An  eye  well-practised  in  nature,  a  spirit  bounded  and  poor; 
The  passionate  heart  of  the  poet  is  wbirl'd  into  folly  and  vice. 
I  would  not  marvel  at  either,  but  keep  a  temperate  braiu ; 
For  not  to  desire  or  admire,  if  a  man  could  learn  it,  were  more 
Than  to  walk  all  day  like  the  saltan  of  old  in  a  garden  of  spice. 

8.. 
For  the  drift  ot  the  Maker  is  dark,  an  Isis  hid  by  the  veiL 
Who  knows  the  ways  of  the  world,  bow  God  will  bring  them  aboDtf 
Our  planet  is  one,  the  suns  are  many,  the  world  is  wide. 
Shall  I  weep  if  a  Poland  fall  r  shall  I  shriek  if  a  Hungary  fall  1 
Or  an  Infant  civilization  be  ruled  with  rod  or  with  knout? 
I  have  not  made  the  world,  and  He  that  made  it  will  guide. 

e. 

Be  mine  a  philosopher's  life  in  the  quiet  woodland  ways, 

Where  if  I  cannot  he  gay  let  a  pasaionless  peace  be  my  lot. 

Far-off  f^om  the  clamor  of  liars  belied  In  the  hubbub  of  lies : 

From  the  long-neck'd  geese  of  the  world  that  are  ever  hissing  dispndoe, 

Because  their  natures  are  little,  and,  whether  he  heed  it  or  not. 

Where  each  man  walks  with  his  bead  in  a  cloud  of  poisonous  files. 

10. 

And  most  of  all  would  I  flee  (h>m  the  cruel  madness  of  love. 
The  honey  of  poison-flowers  and  all  the  measureless  ilL 
Ah  Maud,  you  milk-white  fawn,  yon  are  all  unmeet  for  a  wife. 
Your  mother  is  mute  In  her  grave  as  her  Image  in  marble  above; 
Your  father  Is  ever  in  London,  you  wander  about  at  your  will; 
You  have  but  fed  on  the  roses,  and  lain  in  the  lilies  of  life. 


A  voioK  by  the  cedar-tree, 

In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall ! 

She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to  me, 

A  passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 

A  martial  song  like  a  trumpet's  call ! 

Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life, 

In  the  happy  morning  ef  life  and  of  May, 

Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array, 

Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 

March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  flfe 

To  the  death,  fur  their  native  land. 

8. 

Maud  with  her  exquisite  face. 
And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the  sunny  sky, 
And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  English  green. 
Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  her  grace, 
Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honor  that  cannot  die, 
Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so  sordid  and  mean, 
And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 

S. 

Silence,  beautiftal  voice ! 

Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind 

With  a  joy  in  which  I  cannot  rejoice, 

A  glory  I  shall  not  find. 

Still  I  I  will  hear  you  no  more, 

For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me  a  choice 

ftnt  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall  before 

Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,  and  adore. 

Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor  kind, 

Not  her,  not  her,  bat  a  yoice. 


VL 

L 

MoBKHfo  arises  stormy  and  pale. 

No  sun,  bat  a  wannish  glare 

In  fold  upon  fold  of  hueless  cloud. 

And  the  budded  peaks  of  the  wood  are  bow'd 

Caught  and  cnff'd  by  the  gale: 

I  had  fancied  it  would  be  fair. 


Whom  bat  Maud  should  I  meet 

Last  night,  when  the  sunset  burn'd 

On  the  blosBom'd  gable-ends 

At  the  bead  of  the  village  street. 

Whom  but  Maud  should  I  meetf 

And  she  touch'd  my  hand  with  a  smile  so  sweet 

She  made  me  divine  amends 

For  a  coortesy  not  retum'd. 

8. 

And  thus  a  delicate  spark 

Of  glowing  and  growing  light 

Thro'  the  livelong  hours  of  the  dark 

Kept  Itself  warm  In  the  heart  of  my  dreams, 

Ready  to  burst  in  a  color'd  flame; 

Till  at  last,  when  the  morning  came 

In  a  cloud,  it  faded,  and  seems 

But  an  ashen-gray  delight 


What  if  with  her  sunny  hair, 
And  smile  as  sunny  as  cold. 
She  meant  to  weave  me  a  snare 
Of  some  ooqaettiBh  deceit. 


MAUD. 


188 


C1«opftt»-llte  M  or  old 

To  enuuigto  m«  when  w«  met, 

To  hare  her  lion  roll  In  a  silken  net, 

And  (hwn  at  a  rictorV  feet. 


Ah,  what  nhall  I  be  at  (Ifty 

Should  Nature  keep  me  alive, 

If  I  And  the  world  so  bitter 

When  I  am  but  twenty.flref 

Yot,  If  «h(<  were  not  a  cheat, 

ir  Maud  were  all  that  she  eeem'd. 

And  her  entile  were  all  that  I  drcnm'd, 

Then  the  world  were  not  bo  bitter 

But  a  smile  coold  make  It  sweet. 


What  if  tho'  her  eye  seem'd  ftill 
or  a  kind  intent  to  me. 
What  if  that  dandy-despot,  he, 
That  Jewoll'd  mai<»  of  millinery, 
That  oil'd  and  curl'd  AMvriau  Bull 
Smelling  of  musk  and  of  insolence, 
Her  bjrother,  trom  whom  I  keep  aloof, 
Who  wants  the  finer  politic  Msnse 
To  ninsk,  tho'  but  in  his  own  behoof, 
Willi  a  glassy  smile  his  bmtal  scorn,— 
What  if  he  had  told  her  yestermom 
Uow  prettily  for  bis  own  sweet  sake 
A  face  of  tenderness  roight  be  feign'd, 
And  a  moist  mirage  in  desert  eyes. 
That  so,  when  the  rotten  hustings  shake 
In  another  month  to  his  brazen  lies, 
A  wretched  vote  may  be  gaiu'd. 


For  a  raven  ever  croaks,  at  my  side. 

Keep  watch  and  ward,  keep  watch  and  ward. 

Or  thou  wilt  prove  their  tool. 

Yea  too,  myself  from  myself  I  guard. 

For  often  a  man's  own  angry  pride 

Id  cap  and  bells  for  a  fooL 

& 

Perhaps  the  smile  and  tender  tone 

Came  out  ol  her  pitying  womanhood. 

For  am  I  not,  am  I  not,  here  alone 

So  many  a  summer  since  she  died. 

My  mother,  who  was  so  gentle  and  good  f 

Living  alone  in  an  empty  bonse. 

Here  half-hid  in  the  gleaming  wood, 

\Vhere  I  hear  the  dead  at  midday  moan. 

And  the  shrieking  rush  of  the  wainscot  mouse, 

And  my  own  sad  name  in  comers  cried, 

Wlien  the  shiver  of  dancing  leaves  is  thrown 

About  its  echoing  chambers  wide. 

Till  a  morbid  hate  and  horror  have  grown 

Of  a  world  in  which  I  have  hardly  mixt. 

And  a  morbid  eating  lichen  flxt 

On  a  heart  baU-tnm'd  to  stone. 

9. 

0  heart  of  stone,  are  you  flesh,  and  caught 
By  that  you  swore  to  withstand  ? 

For  what  was  it  else  within  me  wrought 
But,  I  fear,  the  new  strong  wine  of  tove. 
That  made  my  tongue  so  stammer  and  trip 
When  I  saw  the  treasured  splendor,  her  band, 
Ck>me  sliding  out  of  her  sacred  glove. 
And  the  sunlight  broke  f^om  her  lip? 

10. 

1  have  play'd  with  her  when  a  child ; 
She  remembers  it  now  we  meet. 

Ah  well,  well,  well,  I  may  be  beguiled 
By  some  coquettish  decek. 
Yet,  if  she  were  not  a  cheat. 


IT  Hand  were  all  that  alM  MMi'd, 
And  her  smile  had  all  that  I  dnui'd, 
Then  the  world  were  not  so  btttar 
But  a  smile  could  make  It  aweet. 

VIL 

1. 

Did  I  hear  it  half  In  a  dote 
Long  since,  I  know  not  where  7 

Did  I  dream  it  an  hour  ago. 
When  asleep  In  this  arm-chair  r 


Men  were  drinking  together. 
Drinking  and  talking  of  me ; 

"  Well,  if  It  prove  a  girl,  the  boy 
WUl  have  plenty:  so  let  it  be." 


Is  it  an  echo  of  something 
Read  with  a  boy's  delight, 

Viziers  nodding  together 
In  some  Arabian  night? 


Strange,  that  I  hear  two  men, 

Somewhere,  talking  of  me ; 
"Well,  if  it  prove  a  girl,  my  boy 

WUl  have  plenty:  so  let  It  be." 

VIIL 
She  came  to  the  village  church. 
And  sat  by  a  pillar  alone ; 
An  angel  watching  an  nm 
Wept  over  her,  carved  in  stone ; 
And  once,  but  once,  she  lifted  her  eyes. 
And  suddenly,  sweetly,  strangely  binsh'd 
To  And  they  were  met  by  my  own ; 
And  suddenly,  sweetly,  my  heart  beat  stronger 
And  thicker,  until  I  heard  no  longer 
The  snowy-banded,  dilettante, 
Delicate-handed  priest  intone; 
And  thought.  Is  it  pride,  and  mused  and  sigh'd 
"  No  snrely,  now  it  cannot  be  pride." 

IX. 

I  WAS  walking  a  mile. 
More  than  a  mile  from  the  shore. 
The  sun  look'd  oat  with  a  smile 
Betwixt  the  cloud  and  the  moor, 
And  riding  at  set  of  day 
Over  the  dark  moor  land. 
Rapidly  riding  far  away. 
She  waved  to  me  with  lier  hand. 
There  were  two  at  her  side. 
Something  flash'd  in  the  sun, 
Down  by  the  hill  I  saw  them  ride. 
In  a  moment  they  were  gone: 
Like  a  sudden  spark 
Struck  vainly  in  the  night, 
And  back  returns  the  dark 
With  no  more  hope  of  light. 


SioK,  am  I  sick  of  a  Jealoiu  dread  t 
Was  not  one  of  the  two  at  her  side 
This  new-made  lord,  whose  splendor  plucks 
The  slavish  hat  from  the  villager's  head  ? 
Whose  old  grandfather  has  lately  died. 
Gone  to  a  blacker  pit,  for  whom 
Grimy  nakedness  dragging  his  trucks 
And  laving  his  trams  in  a  poison'd  gloom 
Wrought,  till  he  crept  ttom  a  gutted  mine 
Master  of  half  a  servile  shire. 


134 


MAUD. 


And  left  his  coal  all  turn'd  into  gold 
To  a  grandson,  first  of  his  noble  line, 
Rich  in  the  grace  all  women  desire. 
Strong  in  the  power  that  all  men  adore, 
And  simper  and  set  their  voices  lower, 
And  soften  as  if  to  a  girl,  and  hold 
Awe-stricken  breaths  at  a  work  divine, 
Heeing  his  gewgaw  castle  shine, 
New  as  his  title,  bnilt  last  year. 
There  amid  perky  larches  and  pine. 
And  over  the  enllen-pnrple  moor 
(Look  at  it)  pricking  a  cockney  ear. 

9. 

What,  has  he  found  my  jewel  outT 
Kor  one  of  the  two  that  rode  at  her  side 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  I  am  snre  was  be: 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  and  I  think  for  a  bride. 
Blithe  would  her  brother's  acceptance  be. 
Maud  could  be  gracious  too,  no  doubt. 
To  a  lord,  a  captain,  a  padded  shape, 
A  bought  commiHi<ion,  a  waxen  face, 
A  rabbit  month  that  is  ever  agape- 
Bought  f  what  is  it  he  cannot  buyf 
And  therefore  splenetic,  personal,  baae, 
A  wounded  thing  with  a  rancorona  erj, 
\t  war  with  myself  and  a  wretched  race, 
Sick,  sick  to  the  heart  of  life,  am  I. 

S. 

Last  week  came  one  to  the  connty  town, 
To  preach  our  poor  little  army  down, 
And  play  the  game  of  the  defpot  kings, 
Tho'  the  state  has  done  it  and  thrice  as  well : 
This  broad-brim'd  hawker  ot  holy  things, 
Whose  ear  is  stnfTd  with  his  cotton,  and  rings 
Even  in  dreams  to  the  chink  of  his  pence, 
Tills  huckster  put  down  war  I  can  he  tell 
\Miether  war  be  a  cause  or  a  consequence  f 
Put  down  the  passions  that  make  earth  Hell ! 
Down  with  ambition,  avarice,  pride, 
.fealousy,  down  !  cut  off  from  the  mind 
The  bitter  springe  of  anger  and  fear ; 
Down  too,  down  at  your  own  fireside 
With  the  evil  tongue  and  the  evil  ear, 
For  each  is  at  war  with  mankind. 


I  wish  I  could  hear  again 

The  chivalrouH  battle-song 

That  she  warbled  alone  in  her  Joy ! 

I  might  persuade  myself  then 

She  wonld  not  do  herself  this  great  wrong 

To  take  a  wanton,  dissolute  boy 

For  a  man  and  leader  of  men. 


Ah  Ood,  for  a  man  vdth  heart,  head,  hand. 
Like  some  of  the  simple  great  ones  gone 
For  ever  and  ever  by. 
One  still  strong  man  in  a  blatant  land, 
Whatever  they  call  him,  what  care  I, 
Aristocrat,  democrat,  autocrat, — one         , 
Who  can  rule  and  dare  not  lie. 


And  ah  for  a  man  to  arise  in  me. 
That  the  man  I  am  may  cease  to  be ! 

XL 
1. 
O  LET  the  solid  ground 

Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 
Before  my  life  has  found 
What  some  have  found  so  sweet; 


Then  let  come  what  come  may, 
What  matter  if  I  go  mad, 
I  shall  have  had  my  day. 

2. 

Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure. 
Not  close  and  darken  above  mc 

Before  I  am  quite  quite  snre 
That  there  is  one  to  love  me; 

Then  let  come  what  come  may 

To  a  life  that  has  been  so  sad, 

I  stiall  have  had  my  day. 

XIL 
1. 

BiBDs  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
When  twilight  was  falling, 

Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 
They  were  crying  and  calling. 

2. 
Where  was  Maud  t  in  our  wood ; 

And  L  who  else,  was  with  her, 
Gathering  woodland  lilies. 

Myriads  blow  together. 

3. 
Birds  in  oar  woods  sang 

Ringing  thro'  the  valleys, 
Maud  i«  here,  here,  here 

In  among  the  lilies. 


I  kiss'd  her  slender  bana, 
She  took  the  kiss  sedately ; 

Maud  is  not  seventeen. 
Bat  she  is  tall  and  stately. 

B. 
I  to  cry  out  on  pride 

Who  have  won  her  OaTor! 
O  Maud  were  sure  of  Hearen 

If  lowliness  coald  save  her. 


I  know  the  way  she  went 
Home  with  her  maiden  posy, 

For  her  feet  have  touch'd  the  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 


Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
Were  crying  and  calling  to  her, 

Wliere  is  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 
One  is  come  to  woo  her. 

8. 

Look,  a  horse  at  the  door. 
And  little  King  Charles  is  snarlhig. 

Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor. 
Ton  are  not  her  darling. 

xm. 

1. 

Scorn'd,  to  be  scom'd  by  one  that  I  scorn. 

Is  that  a  matter  to  make  me  tretl 

That  a  calamity  hard  to  be  borne? 

Well,  he  may  live  to  hate  me  yet. 

Fool  that  I  am  to  be  vext  with  his  pride! 

I  past  him,  I  was  crossing  his  lands; 

He  stood  on  the  path  a  little  aside; 

His  face,  as  I  grant,  in  spite  of  spite. 

Has  a  broad-blovrn  comeliness,  red  and  white. 


MAUD. 


i:t5 


And  nlz  fe«t  two,  M  I  think,  he  •tnndii : 
But  hln  eMencM  tarn'd  the  live  air  «lck, 
And  tNurbaroos  opaleoM  Jewel-thick 
Snnn'd  itaelf  oa  bl*  bnut  and  hia  banda. 


Who  ahall  call  me  angentle,  unMr, 
I  long'd  ao  heartily  then  and  there 
To  gtva  him  the  graop  of  fetlowKhlp  i 
Bat  while  I  paat  he  waa  humming  an  air, 
Stopt,  and  then  with  a  riding  whip 
L.elaarely  tapping  a  gloesy  boot, 
And  cnrving  a  contamelloas  lip, 
Oorgoniud  me  (Vom  head  to  foot 
With  a  atony  Britiah  atare. 


Why  6it»  he  here  in  his  fathcrV  chnirf 
TbKt  old  man  never  comes  to  hit*  plnce: 
Shall  I  believe  him  ashamed  to  be  soeuf 
For  only  once.  In  the  village  street, 
lAst  year,  I  canght  a  glimpse  of  his  Owe, 
A  gray  old  wolf  and  a  lean. 
Scarcely,  now,  would  I  call  him  a  cheat : 
Pur  then,  perhaps,  as  a  child  of  deceit, 
8he  might  by  a  true  descent  be  ontme ; 
And  Mand  Is  aa  tme  as  Hand  is  sweet : 
Tho'  I  (luicy  her  sweetness  only  due 
To  tbe  sweeter  blood  by  the  other  t>ide; 
Her  mother  has  been  a  thing  complete. 
However  she  came  to  be  so  allied. 
And  fair  without,  faithfUl  within, 
Maud  to  him  is  nothing  akin; 
Some  peculiar  mystic  grace 
Made  her  only  the  child  of  her  mother, 
And  heap'd  the  whole  inherited  sin 
On  that  huge  scapegoat  of  the  race, 
All,  all  upon  the  brother. 


Peace,  angry  spirit,  and  let  him  be  I 
Has  not  liis  sister  smiled  on  me? 

XIV. 

1. 
Mann  has  a  garden  of  roses 
And  lilies  fair  on  a  lawn ; 
There  she  walks  in  her  state 
And  tends  upon  bed  and  bower 
And  thither  I  climb'd  at  dawn 
And  stood  by  her  garden  gate; 
A  Hon  ramps  at  the  top, 
Ue  is  claspt  by  a  passion-flower. 


Maud's  own  little  oak-room 

(Which  Mand,  like  a  precioos  stone 

Set  in  the  heart  of  the  carren  gloom. 

Lights  with  herself,  when  alone 

She  sits  by  her  music  and  books. 

And  her  brother  lingers  late 

With  a  roystering  company)  looks 

Upon  Maud's  own  garden  gate : 

And  I  thought  as  I  stood,  if  a  hand,  as  while 

As  ocean-fuam  in  the  moon,  were  laid 

On  the  hasp  of  the  window,  and  my  Delight 

Had  a  sudden  desire,  like  a  glorious  ghost,  to  glide, 

Like  a  beam  of  the  seventh  Heaven,  down  to  my  side, 

There  were  but  a  step  to  be  made. 

3. 
The  Cuicy  flatter'd  ray  mind. 
And  again  seem'd  overbold; 
Now  I  thought  that  she  cared  for  me, 
Now  I  thought  she  was  kind 
Only  becaose  ahe  waa  cold. 


I  heard  no  sound  where  I  stood 

Dut  the  rivuloi  on  from  the  lawn 

Knnning  down  to  my  own  dark  wood : 

Or  the  voice  of  the  long  mm-wave  as  It  swell'd 

Now  and  then  in  tho  ilim-gmy  dawn ; 

But  I  look'd,  and  round,  all  round  the  booae  I  be- 
held 

The  death-white  curtain  drawn ; 

Felt  a  horror  over  me  creep, 

Prickle  my  skin  and  catch  my  breath, 

Knew  that  the  death-white  curtain  meant  btit  sleep, 

Yet  I  shudder'd  and  thought  like  a  fool  of  tbe  sloeii 
of  death. 

XV. 

So  dark  a  mind  within  me  dwells. 

And  I  make  myself  such  evil  cheer. 
That  if  I  l>e  dear  to  some  one  else, 

Then  some  one  else  may  have  much  to  fear ; 
But  If  I  be  dear  to  some  one  else. 

Then  I  should  be  to  myself  more  dear. 
Shall  I  not  take  care  of  nil  that  I  think, 
Yea  ev'n  of  wretched  meat  and  drink. 
If  I  bo  dear. 
If  I  be  dear  to  aome  one  else  t 


XVL 
1. 

TuiB  lump  of  earth  bos  left  his  estate 

The  lighter  by  the  loss  of  bis  weight; 

And  so  that  he  And  what  he  went  to  seek. 

And  ftilsome  Pleasure  clog  him,  and  drown 

HIh  heart  in  the  gross  mnd-honey  of  town, 

He  may  stay  for  a  year  who  has  gone  for  n  week: 

But  this  is  the  day  when  I  must  speak, 

And  I  see  my  Oread  coming  down, 

O  this  is  the  day ! 

0  beautiful  creature,  what  am  I 
That  I  dare  to  look  her  way; 
Think  I  may  hold  dominion  sweet. 

Lord  of  the  pulse  that  is  lord  of  her  breast. 
And  dream  of  her  beauty  with  tender  dread, 
Frt)m  the  delicate  Arab  arch  of  her  feet 
To  the  grace  that,  bright  and  light  as  tbe  crest 
Of  a  peacock,  sits  on  her  shining  head. 
And  she  knows  it  not :  O,  if  she  knew  it. 
To  know  her  beanty  miirht  half  nndo  it. 

1  know  it  the  one  bright  thing  to  pnve 
My  yet  young  life  in  the  wilds  of  Time, 
Perhaps  ft-om  madness,  perhaps  from  crime 
Perhaps  ttom  a  selfish  grave. 

8. 

What,  if  she  were  fksten'd  to  this  fool  lord. 

Dare  I  bid  her  abide  by  her  word? 

Should  I  love  her  so  well  if  she 

Had  given  her  word  to  a  thing  so  low? 

Shall  I  love  her  as  well  if  she 

Can  break  her  word  were  it  even  for  me  ? 

I  trust  that  it  is  not  sa 


Catch  not  my  breath,  O  clamorous  heart. 
Let  not  my  tongue  be  a  thrall  to  my  eye. 
For  I  must  tell  her  before  we  part, 
I  must  tell  her,  or  die. 

xvn. 

Oo  not,  happy  day. 
From  the  shining  ilelds, 

Qo  not,  happy  day. 
Till  the  maiden  vields. 


186 


MAUD. 


Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  Is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks. 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 
When  the  happy  Yes 

Falters  from  her  lips, 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 

O'er  the  blowing  ships, 
Over  blowing  seas, 

Over  seas  at  rest, 
Pass  the  happy  news, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West, 
Till  the  red  man  dance 

By  his  red  cedar-tree, 
And  the  red  man's  babe 

Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush  from  West  to  East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cbeekjs, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 

XVIIL 
L 

I  iiAVK  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  (Hend. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none, 

And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 

And  sweetly,  on  and  on 

(Calming  \tne\t  to  the  long-wlsh'd-for  end, 

Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promised  good. 

2. 

None  like  her,  none. 

Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurel's  pattering  talk 

Seem'd  her  light  foot  along  the  garden  walk. 

And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she  comes  once  more ; 

But  even  then  I  heard  her  close  the  door. 

The  gates  of  heaven  arc  dosed,  and  she  U  gone. 

8- 
There  is  none  like  her,  none. 
Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have  deceased. 
O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 
In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy  deliclons 

East, 
Highing  for  Lebanon, 

Dark  cedar,  tbo'  thy  limbs  have  here  increased. 
Upon  a  pastoral  slope  as  fair. 
And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed 
With  honey'd  rain  and  delicate  air. 
And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 
Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed  my  fate. 
And  made  my  life  a  perfumed  altar-flame ; 
And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must  have  spread 
With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old,  thy  great 
Forefathers  of  the  thomless  garden,  there 
Shadowing  the   snow-limb'd  Eve  h-om  whom  she 

came. 


Here  will  I  lie,  while  these  long  branches  sway, 

And  you  fair  stars  that  crown  a  happy  day 

Gk>  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play. 

Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn. 

As  when  it  seem'd  far  better  to  be  bom 

To  labor  and  the  mattock-harden'd  hand. 

Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought- to  understand 

A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 

That  makes  you  tyrants  in  yonr  iron  skies. 

Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes. 

Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  bum  and  brand 

His  nothingness  into  man. 


5. 

But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 

Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a  pearl 

The  conntercharm  of  space  and  hollow  sky, 

And  do  accept  my  madness  and  would  die 

To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one  simple  girl. 


Would  die ;  for  sullen-seeming  Death  may  give 

More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 

In  our  low  world,  where  yet  't  is  sweet  to  live. 

Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to  pass; 

It  seems  that  I  am  happy,  that  to  me 

A  livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the  grass, 

A  purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 

T. 
Not  die ;  bnt  lire  a  life  of  truest  breath. 
And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal  wrongs. 
O,  why  should  Love,  like  men  in  drinking-songs, 
Spice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust  of  death  T 
Hake  answer,  Maud  my  bliss. 
Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long  lover's  kiss, 
Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer  this  T 
"  The  dosky  strand  of  Death  inwoven  here 
With  dear  Love's  tie,  makes  Love  himself  more  d<>iu-. ' 

8. 

Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the  swell 

Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder  bay  1 

And  hark  the  clock  within,  the  silver  knell 

Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  In  bridal  white. 

And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  palsea  play ; 

Bnt  now  by  this  my  love  has  closed  her  sight 

And  given  false  death  her  band,  and  stol'n  away 

To  dreamftal  wastes  where  footless  fancies  dwell 

Among  the  fancies  of  the  golden  day. 

May  nothing  there  her  maiden  grace  aAight ! 

Dear  heart,  I  feel  with  thee  the  drowsy  spell. 

My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight. 

My  own  heart's  heart  and  ownest  own  farewell; 

It  is  but  for  a  little  space  I  go 

And  ye  meanwhile  br  over  moor  and  fell 

Beat  to  the  noiseless  mnsic  of  the  night  I 

Has  oar  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to  the  glow 

Of  your  soft  splendors  that  you  look  so  bright  t 

I  have  climb'd  nearer  oat  of  lonely  HelL 

Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things  below, 

Beat  with  my  heart  more  blest  than  heart  can  tell. 

Blest,  bnt  for  some  dark  undercurrent  woe 

That  seems  to  draw— but  it  shall  not  be  so: 

Let  all  be  well,  be  welL 

XIX. 
1. 

Hrr  brother  is  coming  back  to-night. 
Breaking  op  my  dream  of  delight. 


My  dream  T  do  I  dream  of  bliss  t 

I  have  walk'd  awake  with  Troth. 

O  when  did  a  morning  shine 

So  rich  in  atonement  as  this 

For  my  dark  dawning  youth, 

Darkeu'd  watching  a  mother  decline 

And  that  dead  man  at  her  heart  and  mine : 

For  who  was  left  to  watch  her  but  I  ? 

Yet  so  did  I  let  my  f^hness  die. 


I  trust  that  I  did  not  talk 

To  gentle  Maud  In  our  walk 

(For  often  in  lonely  wanderings 

I  have  cursed  him  even  to  lifeless  things) 


IfAUD. 


187 


Bat  I  trust  that  I  did  n«t  talk, 

Not  toocb  on  bvr  fathcrV  hIh  : 

I  un  sura  I  did  bat  i<pi'uk 

or  tbj  mother'!  Atded  cbo«k 

Wb«n  it  slowly  grew  so  thio, 

Th&t  I  Mt  she  w^  slowly  dying 

Vext  with  lawyer*  aod  harass'd  with  debt: 

For  bow  often  I  caught  her  with  eyes  all  wet. 

Shaking  hor  bead  at  her  son  and  sighing 

A  world  of  trouble  within  I 


And  Mand  toa  Mand  was  mored 

To  speak  of  the  mother  she  loved 

As  one  scarce  lees  forlorn, 

Dying  abroad  and  it  seems  apart 

From  him  who  had  ceased  to  share  her  heart. 

And  ever  mouming  over  the  feud, 

The  luniJ'ehoUl  Fury  8|)rlnkled  with  blood 

By  which  our  houBcs  are  torn  ; 

How  strange  was  what  she  said, 

When  only  Maud  and  the  brother 

Bang  over  her  dylnp  bed,— 

That  Mand'8  dark  father  and  mine 

Had  bonnd  us  one  to  the  other, 

Betrothed  us  over  their  wine 

On  the  day  when  Maud  was  bom ; 

Seal'd  her  mine  tnta  her  firm  nweet  breath. 

Mine,  mine  by  a  right,  fh)m  birth  till  death. 

Mine,  miuo— our  fkthers  have  Bwom. 


But  the  true  blood  spilt  bad  in  it  a  heat 
To  dissolve  the  precious  seal  on  a  bond. 
That,  if  left  nncancell'd,  had  been  so  sweet  : 
And  none  of  us  thought  of  a  something  beyond, 
A  desire  that  awoke  in  the  heart  of  the  child, 
As  it  were  a  duty  done  to  the  tomb. 
To  be  friends  for  her  sake,  to  be  reconciled ; 
And  I  was  cursing  them  and  my  doom, 
And  letting  a  dangerous  thought  run  wild 
While  often  abroad  in  the  fragrant  gloom 
Of  foreign  churches,— I  see  her  there. 
Bright  English  lily,  breathing  a  prayer 
To  be  (Hends,  to  be  reconciled  i 


But  then  what  a  dint  is  he ! 

Abroad,  at  Florence,  at  Rome, 

I  And  whenever  she  tonch'd  on  me 

This  brother  had  laugh'd  her  down. 

And  at  last,  when  each  came  home, 

He  had  darken'd  into  a  frown, 

Chid  her,  and  forbid  her  to  speak 

To  me,  her  fHend  of  the  years  before ; 

And  this  was  what  had  redden'd  her  cheek. 

When  I  bow'd  to  her  on  the  moor. 

7. 
Yet  Mand,  altho'  not  blind 
To  the  Csnlts  of  his  heart  and  mind, 
I  see  sber  cannot  but  love  him. 
And  says  he  is  rough  but  kind, 
And  wishes  me  to  approve  him. 
And  tells  me,  when  she  lay 
Sick  once,  with  a  fear  of  worse. 
That  he  left  bis  wine  and  horses  and  play. 
Sat  with  her,  read  to  her,  night  and  day. 
And  tended  her  like  a  nnrae. 

a 

Kind?  but  the  death-bed  desire 
Spum'd  by  this  heir  of  the  liar- 
Rough  but  kind  ?  yet  I  know 
He  haa  i>lotted  against  me  in  this, 


That  be  ploia  against  om  atlU. 
Kind  to  Maud  t  that  ware  not  ainlas. 
Well,  roogb  bat  kind  i  why,  let  it  be  to: 
For  shall  not  Maud  have  bar  will  r 


For,  Mand,  so  tender  and  tme, 
Aa  long  aa  my  lifls  endures 
I  (ImI  I  ahall  owe  you  a  debt, 
That  I  never  can  hope  to  pay ; 
And  If  ever  I  shonld  fbrget 
That  I  owe  thla  debt  to  yoa 
And  ft>r  yoar  sweet  sake  to  yoors ; 

0  then,  what  then  ahall  I  say  t— 
If  ever  I  thouU  forget, 

May  Qod  make  me  mov  wretched 
Than  ever  I  have  been  yet ! 

10. 
So  now  I  have  sworn  to  bury 
All  this  dead  body  of  hate, 

1  tiMl  ao  f^ee  and  so  clear         * 
By  the  loss  of  that  dead  weight. 

That  I  shonld  grow  light-beaded,  I  flBtr, 
Fantastically  merry; 

But  that  her  brother  comes,  like  a  blight 
On  my  flresb  hope,  to  the  Hall  to-night. 

XX. 

1. 
Stbanqk,  that  I  felt  so  gay. 
Strange  that  I  tried  to-day 
To  beguile  her  melancholy ; 
The  Sultan,  as  we  name  him,— 
She  did  not  wish  to  blame  him— 
But  he  vext  her  and  perplext  her 
With  his  worldly  talk  and  folly: 
Was  it  gentle  to  reprove  her 
For  stealing  out  of  view 
From  a  little  lazy  lover 
Who  but  claims  her  as  his  dae? 
Or  for  chilling  his  caresses 
By  the  coldness  of  her  manners. 
Nay,  the  plainness  of  her  dresses  f 
Now  I  know  her  but  in  two, 
Nor  can  pronounce  upon  it    • 
If  one  should  ask  me  whether 
The  habit,  hat,  and  feather, 
Or  the  frock  and  gypsy  bonnet 
Be  the  neater  and  completer; 
For  nothing  can  be  sweeter 
Than  maiden  Maud  in  either. 


But  to-morrow,  if  we  live, 
Our  ponderous  squire  will  give 
A  grand  political  dinner 
To  half  the  squirelings  near; 
And  Maud  will  wear  her  Jewels, 
And  the  bird  Oi  prey  will  hover, 
And  the  titmouse  hope  to  win  her 
With  bis  chirrup  at  her  ear. 

8. 

A  grand  political  dinner 

To  the  men  of  many  acres, 

A  gathering  of  the  Tory, 

A  dinner  and  then  a  dance 

For  the  maids  and  marriage-makero. 

And  every  eye  but  mine  will  glance 

At  Mand  in  all  her  glory. 


For  I  am  not  invited. 

But,  with  the  Saltan's  pardo 

I  am  all  as  well  delighted. 

For  I  know  her  own  rose-garden. 


138 


MAUD. 


And  mean  to  linger  in  it 
Till  the  dancing  will  be  over; 
And  then,  O  then,  come  out  to  me 
For  a  minute,  but  for  a  minute, 
Come  out  to  your  own  true  lover, 
That  your  true  lover  may  see 
Your  glory  also,  and  render 
All  homage  to  his  own  darling, 
Qaeen  Maud  in  all  her  splendor. 

XXI. 

RivuLBT  crossing  my  ground, 

And  bringing  me  down  from  the  Hall 

This  garden-rose  that  I  found, 

Forgetful  of  Maud  and  me, 

And  lost  in  troubM  and  moving  round 

Here  at  the  head  of  a  tlnkliug  fall, 

Aud  trying  to  pass  to  the  sea ; 

O  Rivulet,  bom  at  the  Hall, 

My  Maud  has  sent  it  by  thee 

(If  I  read  her  sweet  will  right) 

On  a  blushing  mission  to  me. 

Saying  in  odor  and  color,  "  Ah,  be 

Among  the  roses  to-night" 

XXIL 

1. 

Comb  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Mand, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone; 

Aud  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafled  abroad. 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 


For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 
And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high. 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky. 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  that  she  loves. 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

S. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  Jessamine  stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune ; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hash  with  the  setting  moon. 


I  caid  to  the  lily,  "There  is  but  one 
With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 

When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  t 
She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 

Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 
Aud  half  to  the  rising  day ; 

Ltiw  on  the  sjind  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 


1  said  to  the  rose,  "  The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  f 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

"  For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 


And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood. 

As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  hall; 
Aud  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood. 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the  wood, 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 


From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so  sweet 
That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 

He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet, 
In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 

To  the  woody  hollows  in  whiclr  we  meet 
And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 


The  slender  acacia  wonld  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree; 
The  white  take-blossom  fell  into  the  lake. 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lee; 
But  the  roi^e  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake. 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me ; 
The  lilies  aud  roses  were  all  awake. 

They  slgh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

9. 
Queen  rose  of  the  rosebnd  garden  of  girls. 

Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done. 
In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls. 

Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one; 
Shine,  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls. 

To  the  flowers,  aud  be  their  son. 

10. 

There  has  follen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear ;         ' 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "  She  is  near,  she  is  near ;" 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "She  is  late;" 
The  larkspur  listens,  "  I  bear,  I  hear ;" 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "I  wait" 

11. 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread. 
My  heart  wonld  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat. 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead : 
Wonld  start  and  tremble  nnder  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  pnrple  and  red. 

XXIIL 


"  The  fault  was  mine,  the  fault  was  mine  "— 

Why  am  I  sitting  here  so  stnnn'd  and  still. 

Plucking  the  harmless  wild-flower  on  the  hillt— 

It  is  this  guilty  hand  1— 

And  there  rises  ever  a  passionate  cry 

From  underneath  In  the  darkening  land— 

What  Is  It  that  has  been  done* 

O  dawn  of  Eden  bright  over  earth  and  sky. 

The  fires  of  Hell  brake  out  of  thy  rising  sun, 

The  fires  of  Hell  and  of  Hate ; 

For  she,  sweet  soul,  had  hardly  spoken  a  word. 

When  her  brother  ran  in  his  rage  to  the  gate. 

He  came  with  the  babe-faced  lord ; 

Heap'd  on  her  terms  of  disgrace. 

And  while  she  wept,  and  I  strove  to  be  cool. 

He  fiercely  gave  me  the  lie. 

Till  I  with  as  fierce  an  anger  spoke. 

And  he  stmck  me,  madman,  over  the  face, 

Stnjck  me  before  the  languid  fool, 

^Vho  was  gaping  and  grinning  by: 

Stnick  for  himself  an  evil  stroke : 

Wrought  for  his  house  an  irredeemable  woe: 

For  front  to  front  in  an  hour  we  stood. 

And  a  million  horrible  bellowing  echoes  broke 

From  the  red-ribb'd  hollow  behind  the  wood. 

And  thunder'd  np  into  Heaven  the  Christless  code. 

That  must  have  life  for  a  blow. 


MAUD. 


180 


Bver  and  nw  afrMh  th«jr  M«m'd  to  grow. 
Wu  It  h«  lay  t)i«r«  with  a  fading  eye  r 
"Th«  ftialt  waa  mine,"  he  whlKper'd,  "flyl" 
Then  glided  ont  of  the  J»youN  wood 
The  ghaatly  Wraith  uf  uno  ttmt  I  know ; 
And  there  rang  on  a  auddcu  n  ptMlunato  crjr, 
A  cry  for  a  brother's  bluod : 
It  will  ring  in  my  heart  and  my  can,  till  I  die,  till 
1  die. 


I*  it  gone?  my  pnlsee  beat— 

What  wiu  U  ?  a  lyinf<  trick  of  the  brain  r 

Yet  I  thnti);ht  1  haw  hor  stand, 

A  iihftdow  there  at  my  feet. 

High  over  the  thndowy  land. 

It  la  gone;  and  the  heavens  fall  in  a  gentle  rain, 

When  they  ahonld  burst  and  drown  with  dcluglug 

■tonna 
The  fteble  vassals  of  wine  and  anger  and  Inst, 
The  little  hearts  that  know  not  how  to  forKlvc: 
Arise,  my  God,  ond  strike,  for  wo  hold  Thee  Just, 
Strike  dead  the  whole  weak  race  of  venomons  worms. 
That  sting  each  other  here  In  the  dust ; 
We  are  not  worthy  to  live. 

XXIV. 

1. 

8b«  what  a  lovely  shell. 
Small  and  pnre  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot. 
Frail,  bnt  a  work  divine, 
Made  so  fairily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl. 
How  esqui!»ltely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design ! 


What  is  it  r  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can. 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 

8. 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn. 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  In  a  rainbow  frill  t 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncarl'd, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
Thro'  his  dim  water-world  f 

4. 

Slight,  to  be  crush'd  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  snnd, 
Small,  but  a  work  divine, 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand. 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap        • 
The  three-decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock, 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand ! 


Breton,  not  Briton ;  here 

Like  a  shipwreck'd  man  on  a  coast 

Of  ancient  fable  and  fear, — 

Plagued  with  a  fllttinj;  to  and  firo, 

A  disease,  %  hard  mechanic  f^host 

That  never  came  from  on  high 

Nor  ever  arose  from  below, 

Bnt  only  moves  with  the  moving  eye. 

Flying  along  the  land  and  the  main,— 


Why  should  it  look  like  Maudf 
Am  I  to  bo  overawed 
By  what  I  cannot  bnt  know 
la  a  Joggle  bom  of  the  brain  t 


Back  ttom  the  Brettm  coaat, 

Sick  of  a  namelesa  fear, 

Back  to  the  dark  sca-llno 

Looking,  thinking  of  all  I  have  loat; 

An  old  song  vexes  my  ear; 

But  that  of  Lamech  la  mine. 


For  years,  a  measnreleaa  ill, 
For  years,  forever,  to  part,— 
But  she,  she  would  love  me  atJII : 
And  as  long,  O  Ood,  as  she 
Have  a  grain  of  love  for  me, 
So  long,  no  doubt,  no  doubt, 
Shall  I  nurse  In  my  dark  heart, 
However  weary,  a  spark  uf  will 
Not  to  bo  trampled  ouL 


Strange,  that  the  mind,  when  franght 

With  a  passion  so  intense 

One  would  think  that  it  well 

Might  drown' all  life  in  the  eye,— 

That  it  should,  by  being  so  overwrought, 

Suddenly  strike  on  a  sharper  sense 

For  a  shell,  or  a  flower,  little  thinga 

Which  else  would  have  been  past  by ! 

And  now  I  remember,  I, 

When  he  lay  dying  there, 

I  noticed  one  of  his  many  rings 

(For  he  had  many,  poor  worm)  and  thooght 

It  Is  his  mother's  hair. 

9. 

Who  knows  if  he  be  dead  t 

Whether  I  need  have  fled  1 

Am  I  guilty  of  blood  ? 

However  this  may  be. 

Comfort  her,  comfort  her,  all  things  good, 

While  I  am  over  the  aea  t 

I^t  me  and  my  passionate  love  go  by. 

But  speak  to  her  all  things  holy  and  high. 

Whatever  happen  to  me  ! 

Me  and  my  harmful  love  go  by; 

Bnt  come  to  her  waklns;.  And  her  asleep. 

Powers  of  the  height,  Powers  of  the  deep, 

And  comfort  her  tho'  I  die. 

XXV, 

CotniAOB,  poor  heart  of  stone ! 

I  will  not  ask  thee  why 

Thou  canst  not  understand 

That  thou  art  left  forever  alone : 

Courage,  poor  stupid  heart  of  stone.— 

Or  if  I  ask  thee  why, 

Care  not  thou  to  reply: 

She  is  bnt  dead,  and  the  time  is  at  hand 

When  thou  shait  more  than  die. 

XXVI. 

1. 

O  THAT  't  were  possible 

After  long  grief  and  pain 

To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 

Round  me  once  again  t 


When  I  waa  wont  to  meet*er 
In  the  silent  woody  places 


liO 


MAUD. 


By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth, 
We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces 
Mist  with  liissee  sweeter  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth. 


A  shadow  flits  before  me, 

Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee ; 

Ah  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 

The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell  us 

What  and  where  they  be. 


It  leads  me  forth  at  evening. 

It  lightly  winds  and  steals 

In  a  cold  white  robe  before  me. 

When  all  my  spirit  reels 

At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 

5. 

Half  the  night  I  waste  in  si^hs. 
Half  in  dreams  I  sorrow  after 
The  delight  of  early  skies ; 
In  a  wakeful  doze  I  sorrow 
For  the  hand,  the  lipe,  the  eyes, 
For  the  meeting  of  the  morrow, 
The  delight  of  happy  laughter. 
The  delight  of  low  replies. 


T  is  a  rooming  pure  and  sweet. 
And  a  dewy  splendor  fulls 
On  the  little  flower  that  clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls ; 
T  is  a  morning  pure  and  sweet. 
And  the  ll<;ht  and  shadow  fleet ; 
She  is  walking  in  the  meadow. 
And  the  woodland  echo  rings; 
In  a  moment  we  shall  meet; 
She  is  Hinging  in  the  meadow. 
And  the  rivulet  at  her  feet 
Ripples  on  in  light  and  shadow 
To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 


Do  I  bear  her  sing  as  of  old. 

My  bird  with  the  shining  head. 

My  own  dove  with  the  tender  eye  t 

lint  there  rings  on  a  sudden  a  passionate  cry. 

There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead, 

And  a  sullen  thunder  is  roll'd; 

For  a  tumult  shakes  the  city, 

And  I  wake,  my  dream  is  fled ; 

In  the  shuddering  dawn,  behold. 

Without  knowledge,  without  pity. 

By  the  curtains  of  my  bed 

That  abiding  phantom  cold. 

8. 
Get  thee  hence,  nor  come  again. 
Mix  not  memory  with  doubt. 
Pass,  thou  deathlike  type  of  pain. 
Pass  and  cease  to  move  about, 
"T  is  the  blot  upon  the  brain 
That  tcill  show  itself  without. 

9. 

Then  I  rise,  the  eavedrops  fall. 
And  the  yellow  vapors  choke 
The  great  city  sounding  wide; 
The  day  comes,  a  dull  red  ball 
Wrapt  in  drifts  %)f  lurid  smoke 
On  the  misty  river-tide. 


10. 
Thro'  the  hubbub  of  the  market 
I  steal,  a  wasted  frame. 
It  crosses  here,  it  crosses  there. 
Thro'  all  that  crowd  confused  and  loud. 
The  shadow  still  the  same ; 
And  on  my  heavy  eyelids 
My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 

11. 
Alas  for  her  that  met  me. 
That  heard  me  softly  call. 
Came  glimmering  thro'  the  laurels 
At  the  quiet  evenfall. 
In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 
Of  the  old  manorial  hall. 

12. 

Woald  the  happy  spirit  descend. 
From  the  realms  of  light  and  song. 
In  the  chamber  or  the  street, 
As  she  looks  among  the  blest. 
Should  I  fear  to  greet  my  friend 
Or  to  Bay  "  forgive  the  wrong," 
Or  to  ask  her,  "  take  me  sweet, 
To  the  regions  of  thy  re«t  ?" 

13. 

But  the  broad  light  glares  and  beats, 

And  the  shadow  flits  and  fleeta 

And  will  not  let  me  be; 

And  I  loathe  the  squares  and  streets, 

And  the  faces  that  one  meets, 

Hearts  with  no  love  for  me : 

Always  I  long  to  creep 

Into  some  still  cavern  deep. 

There  to  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep 

My  whole  soul  oat  to  thee. 

XXVIL 

1. 

Dear,  long  dead, 

Long  dead ! 

And  my  heart  is  a  bandfQl  of  dnst. 

And  the  wheels  go  over  my  head. 

And  my  bones  are  shaken  with  pain. 

For  into  a  shallow  grave  they  are  thrust. 

Only  a  yard  beneath  the  street, 

And  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat,  beat. 

The  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat. 

Beat  into  m^  scalp  and  my  brain. 

With  never  an  end  to  the  stream  of  passing  feet. 

Driving,  hurrying,  marrying,  burying, 

Clamor  and  rumble,  and  ringing  and  clatter. 

And  here  beneath  it  is  all  as  bad. 

For  I  thought  the  dead  had  peace,  bat  it  is  not  so; 

To  have  no  pence  in  the  grave,  is  that  not  sad? 

But  up  and  down  and  to  and  fro, 

Ever  about  m«  the  dead  men  go ; 

And  then  to  hear  a  dead  man  chatter 

Is  enough  to  drive  one  mad. 

a. 

Wretchedest  age,  since  Time  began. 

They  cannot  ev^  bury  a  man ; 

And  tho'  we  paid  our  tithes  in  the  days  that  are  gone^ 

Not  a  bell  was  rung,  not  a  prayer  was  read ; 

It  is  that  which  makes  us  loud  in  the  world  of  the 

dead ; 
There  is  none  that  does  his  work,  not  one : 
A  touch  of  their  ofllce  might  have  suflBced, 
But  the  churchmen  fain  would  kill  their  church. 
As  the  churches  have  kill'd  their  Christ. 


MAUD. 


141 


See,  itaera  U  on*  of  a*  eobbing, 

No  limit  to  hla  distren ; 

Aud  another,  a  lord  of  all  thing*,  praying 

Tu  bta  own  great  eelf,  aa  I  gneaa ; 

And  another,  a  itateeman  there,  betrajrtag 

lliH  party-eeoret,  fbol,  to  the  preei  i 

And  yonder  a  vile  physlcinn,  blabbing 

The  caae  of  his  patlcut,— all  for  what? 

To  tickle  the  maggot  burn  In  an  empty  head, 

And  wheedle  a  world  that  lovoa  him  not, 

For  it  is  bat  a  world  of  the  dead. 


Nothing  bnl  Idiot  gabblel 

For  the  prophecy  given  of  old 

And  then  not  understood. 

Has  come  to  pass  as  foretold ; 

Not  let  any  man  think  for  the  pnblic  good. 

Bat  babble,  merely  for  babble. 

For  I  never  whispcr'd  a  private  nflTnir 

Within  the  hearing  of  cat  or  muu»e. 

No,  not  to  myself  in  the  closet  alone. 

Bat  I  heard  it  shouted  at  once  flrom  the  top  of  the 

honse; 
Everything  came  to  be  known : 
Who  told  him  we  were  there  t 


Not  that  gray  old  wolf,  for  he  came  not  back 
From  the  wilderness,  full  of  wolves,  where  he  used 

to  lie: 
He  has  gather'd  the  bones  for  his  o'ergrown  whelp 

to  crack; 
Crack  them  now  for  yourself,  and  howl,  and  die. 


Prophet,  cnrse  me  the  blabbing  lip. 

And  cnrse  me  the  British  vermin,  the  rat ; 

I  know  not  whether  he  came  in  the  Hanover  ship. 

Bat  I  know  that  he  lies  and  listens  mute 

In  an  ancient  mansion's  crannies  and  holes: 

Arsenic,  arsenic,  snre,  would  do  it. 

Except  that  now  we  poison  our  babes,  poor  souls  f 

It  is  all  need  up  for  that 


Tell  him  now:  she  is  standing  here  at  my  head; 

Not  beantlfal  now,  not  even  kind ; 

He  may  take  her  now ;  for  she  never  speaks  her 

mind. 
Bat  is  ever  the  one  thing  silent  here. 
She  Is  not  of  as,  as  I  divine ; 
She  comes  from  another  stiller  world  of  the  dead. 
Stiller,  not  fairer  than  mine. 


But  I  know  where  a  garden  grows, 

Fairer  than  aaght  in  the  world  beside. 

All  made  up  of  the  lily  and  rose 

That  blow  by  night,  when  the  season  is  good. 

To  the  sound  of  dancing  mnsic  and  flutes: 

It  is  only  flowers,  they  had  no  fhiits, 

And  I  almost  fear  they  are  not  roses,  but  blood ; 

For  the  keeper  was  one,  so  Aill  of  pride, 

He  linkt  a  dead  man  there  to  a  spectral  bride ; 

For  he,  if  he  had  not  been  a  Saltan  of  brntes, 

Would  he  have  that  hole  in  his  sidef 


Bat  what  wOI  the  old  man  say  1 

He  laid  a  cmel  snare  In  a  pit 

To  catch  a  friend  of  mine  one  stormy  day ; 

Yet  now  I  could  even  weep  to  think  of  it ; 

For  what  will  the  old  man  say 

When  he  comes  to  the  second  corpee  in  the  pit  f 


la 

Friend,  to  be  struck  by  the  pabllc  foe, 
Then  to  strike  him  and  lay  him  low, 
That  were  a  public  morit,  far, 
Whatever  the  (Quaker  hold^  from  sin ; 

?nt  the  red  life  spilt  for  a  private  blow- 
swear  to  you,  lawful  and  lawleea  war 
Are  acarcely  even  akin. 

()  mo,  why  have  they  not  buried  me  deep  •nongfaf 

la  It  kind  to  have  made  mo  a  grave  so  rough. 

Mo,  that  was  never  a  quiet  slccpert 

Maybe  still  I  am  but  hnir-doud : 

Then  I  cannot  be  wholly  dumb ; 

I  will  cry  to  the  step«  above  my  bead, 

And  somebody,  surely,  some  kind  heart  will  come 

To  bury  me,  bury  me 

Deeper,  ever  so  little  deeper. 

xxvnL 

1. 

Mr  life  has  crept  so  long  on  a  broken  wing 
Thru'  cells  of  madness,  haunts  of  horror  aud  fear. 
That  I  come  to  be  grateftil  at  last  for  a  little  thingt 
My  mood  is  changed,  for  it  fell  at  a  time  of  year 
When  the  face  of  night  Is  fair  on  the  dewy  downs, 
And  the  shining  daffodil  dies,  and  the  Charioteer  ' 
And  8t4irry  Gemini  hang  like  glorious  crowns 
Over  Orion's  grave  low  down  In  the  west. 
That  like  a  silent  lightning  under  the  stars 
She  seem'd  to  divide  in  a  dream  ttom  a  band  of  the 

blest, 
And  spoke  of  a  hope  for  the  world  in  the  coming 

wars — 
"And  In  that  hope,  dear  soul,  let  trouble  have  rest, 
Knowing  I  tarry  for  thee,"  and  pointed  to  Mars 
As  he  glow'd  like    a   ruddy  shield  on   the  Lion's 

breast. 


And  It  was  but  a  dream,  yet  it  yielded  a  dear  do- 

light 
To  have  look'd,  tho'  but  in  a  dream,  upon  eyes  so 

fair. 
That  had  been  in  a  weary  world  my  one  thing  bright; 
And  it  was  but  a  dream,  yet  it  llghten'd  ray  despair 
When  I  thought  that  a  war  would  arise  in  defence 

of  the  right. 
That  an  iron  tyranny  now  should  bend  or  cease, 
The  glory  of  manhood  stand  on  his  ancient  height, 
Nor  Britain's  one  sole  Oud  be  the  milllonnaire: 
No  more  shall  commerce  be  all  in  ail,  and  Peace 
Pipe  on  her  pastoral  hillock  a  languid  note, 
And  watch  her  harvest  ripen,  her  herd  increase, 
Nor  the  cannon-bullet  rust  on  a  slothful  shore. 
And  the  cobweb  woven  across  the  cannon's  throat 
Shall  shake  its  threaded  tears  in  the  wind  no  more. 

8. 

And  as  months  ran  on  and  rumor  of  battle  grew, 
"It  Is  time,  it  is  time,  O  passionate  heart,"  said  I 
(For  I  cleaved  to  a  cause  that  I  felt  to  be  pure  and 

true), 
"  It  is  time,  O  passionate  heart  and  morbid  eye, 
That  old  hysterical  mock-disease  should  die." 
And  I  stood  on  a  giant  deck  and  miz'd  my  breath 
With  a  loyal  people  shooting  a  battle  cry, 
Till  I  saw  the  dreary  phantom  arise  and  fly 
Far  into  the  North,  and  battle,  and  seas  of  death. 


Let  it  go  or  stay,  to  I  wake  to  the  higher  aims 
Of  a  land  that  has  lost  for  a  little  her  lust  of  gold. 
And  love  of  a  peace  that  was  fbll  of  wrongs  and 
shames. 


142 


THE  BROOK 


Horrible,  hateful,  monstrons,  not  to  be  told ; 
And  hail  once  more  to  the  banner  of  battle  unroll'd ! 
Tho'  many  a  light  shall  darken,  and  many  shall  weep 
For  those  that  are  crush'd  in  the  clash  of  jarring 

claims, 
Yet  God's  just  wrath  shall  be  wreak'd  on  a  giant 

liar; 
And  many  a  darkness  into  the  light  shall  leap 
And  shiue  in  the  sudden  making  of  splendid  names. 
And  noble  thought  be  freer  under  the  sun. 
And  the  heart  of  a  people  beat  with  one  desire ; 
For  the  peace,  that  I  deera'd  no  peace,  is  over  and 

done. 
And  now  by  the  side  of  the  Black  and  the  Baltic 

deep, 
And  deathful-grlnning  mouths  of  the  fortress,  flames 
The  blood-red  blossom  of  war  with  a  heart  of  fire. 


Let  it  flame  or  fade,  and  the  war  roll  down  like  a 

wind. 
We  have  proved  we  have  hearts  in  a  caose,  we  are 

noble  still. 
And  myself  have  awaked,  as  it  seems,  to  the  better 

mind ; 
It  is  better  to  fight  fur  the  good,  than  to  rail  at  the 

ill; 
I  have  felt  with  my  native  land,  I  am  one  with  my 

kind, 
I  embrace  the  pnrpose  of  Qod,  and  the  doom  as- 

sigu'd. 


THE  BROOK; 

AN    IDVL. 

"  Hkkb,  by  this  brook,  we  parted ;  I  to  the  East 
And  he  for  Italy— too  late— too  late: 
One  wliora  the  strong  sons  of  the  world  despise  j 
For  lucky  rhymes  to  him  were  scrip  and  share, 
And  mellow  metres  more  than  cent  for  cent ; 
Nor  could  he  understand  how  money  breeds. 
Thought  it  a  dead  thing:  yet  himself  conld  make 
The  thing  that  is  not  us  the  thing  that  is. 

0  had  he  lived !    In  our  Bchool-btwks  wc  say. 
Of  those  that  held  their  heads  above  the  crowd. 
They  flourish 'd  then  or  then :  but  life  in  him 
fould  scarce  be  said  to  flourioh.  only  toacb'd 
On  such  a  time  as  goes  before  the  leaf, 

When  all  the  wood  stands  in  a  mist  of  green. 
And  nothing  perfect:  yet  the  brook  he  loved, 
For  which,  in  branding  summers  of  Bengal, 
Or  ev'n  the  sweet  half-English  Neilgherry  air, 

1  panted,  seems,  as  I  re-listen  to  it. 
Prattling  the  primrose  fancies  of  the  boy, 

To  me  that  loved  him ;  for  '  O  brook,'  he  says, 
'O  babbling  brook,'  says  Edmund  in  his  rhyme, 
*  Whence  come  you  V  and  the  brook,  why  not  T   re- 
plies. 

I  come  fi*om  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down. 

Or  slip  between  the  ridgee, 
By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 

And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

•'  Poor  lad,  he  died  at  Florence,  quite  worn  out. 
Travelling  to  Naples.    There  is  Damley  bridge. 
It  has  more  ivy;  there  the  river;  and  there 
Stands  Philip's  farm  where  brook  and  river  meet. 


I  chatter  over  stony  ways. 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  flret 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow. 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

"  But  Philip  chatter'd  more  than  brook  or  bird : 
Old  Philip;  all  about  the  fields  you  caught 

His  weary  daylong  chirping,  like  the  dry 
Uigh-elbow'd  grigs  that  leap  in  summer  grass. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 
And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  Join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

"O  darling  Katie  Willows,  his  one  child  1 
A  maiden  of  our  century,  yet  most  meek ; 
A  daughter  of  our  meadows,  yet  not  coarse ; 
Straight,  but  as  lissome  as  a  hazel  wand ; 
Her  eyes  a  bashfU!  azure,  and  her  hair 
In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnat,  when  the  shell 
Divides  threefold  to  sboir  the  fruit  within. 

"  Sweet  Katie,  once  I  did  her  a  good  turn, 
Her  and  her  far-off  cousin  and  betrothed, 
James  Willows,  of  one  name  and  heart  with  her. 
For  bcse  I  came,  twenty  years  back,— the  week 
Before  I  parted  with  .poor  Edmund ;  crost 
By  that  old  bridge  which,  half  in  ruins  then, 
Still  makes  a  hoary  eyebrow  for  the  gleam 
Beyond  it,  where  the  waters  marry— crost. 
Whistling  a  random  bar  of  Bonny  Doon, 
And  push'd  at  Philip's  garden-gate.    The  gate. 
Half-parted  fhun  a  weak  and  scolding  binge. 
Stuck ;  and  he  clamor'd  from  a  casement,  '  run ' 
To  Katie  somewhere  in  the  walks  below, 
'  Kun,  Katie  !'  Katie  never  ran  :  she  moved 
To  meet  me,  winding  under  woodbine  bowers, 
A  little  flutter'd  with  her  eyelids  down. 
Fresh  apple-blossom,  blushing  for  a  boon. 

"What  was  it?  less  of  sentiment  than  sense 
Had  Katie :  not  illiterate ;  neither  one 
Who  babbling  in  the  fount  of  Active  tears, 
And  nursed  by  mealy-mouthed  philanthropies, 
Divorce  the  Feeling  fi-om  her  mate  the  Deed. 

"She  told  me.    She  and  James  had  quarrell'd. 
Whyf 
What  cause  of  qnarrel  1    None,  she  said,  no  cause ; 
James  had  no  cause :  but  when  I  prest  the  cause, 
I  learnt  that  James  had  flickering  jealousies 
Which  anger'd  her.    Who  anger'd  James  ?    I  said. 
But  Katie  snatch'd  her  eyes  at  once  from  mine, 
And  sketching  with  her  slender-pointed  foot 
Some  figure  like  a  wizard's  pentagram 
On  garden  gravel,  let  my  query  pass 
Unclaim'd,  in  flashing  silence,  till  I  ask'd 


THE  LKTTERS. 


148 


U  Jnnim  wi*rp  roiuini;.    'Comlug  every  dttj,' 

Shu  uiiitwcr'd,  'ever  lont^ing  to  explfttn, 

Hut  evermore  her  fiitbcr  came  kctom 

With  mtme  long-wtnded  tnic,  and  broke  htm  whurt ; 

And  James  departed  voxt  with  htm  aud  her.' 

How  could  I  help  her  t    *  Would  I— waa  It  wrong  7' 

tClnvpt  hands  and  that  iRaiiionary  grace 

Of  Hweet  Mveutoen  aubduod  »to  ere  she  spoke) 

*  O  would  I  take  her  father  for  one  hour, 

For  one  half-hour,  and  let  him  talk  to  nic  1' 

Aud  even  while  she  spoke,  I  saw  where  James 

Made  towards  us,  like  a  wader  in  the  surl^ 

Beyond  the  brook,  waist-deep  in  meadow-sweet. 

"  O  Katie,  what  I  enflfer'd  for  your  sake ! 
For  In  I  went  and  cnll'd  old  Philip  out 
Tn  fXwvf  the  farm:  fUll  \villln>;ly  he  roKC: 
He  led  nie  thro'  the  I'hort  Hwect-smellinK  lanes 
or  his  wheat  suburb,  babbling  as  he  went 
Ho  pmiocd  his  land,  his  horses,  bis  machines ; 
He  praised  his  ploughs,  his  cows,  his  hogs,  hi«  dogs ; 
He  praised  his  hens,  his  geese,  his  ^Inea-heus ; 
His  pi{;eons,  who  in  session  on  their  roob 
Approved  hlra,  bowing  at  their  own  deserts: 
Then  flxim  the  plaintive  mother's  teat,  ho  took 
Her  blind  and  Hhudderlug  puppies,  nnming  each, 
And  nanilnji  th()i>c,  Ms  friend!',  for  whom  thoy  were: 
Then  crost  the  common  into  Durnlcy  chase 
To  show  Sir  Arthur's  deer.    In  copse  aud  fern 
Twinkled  the  innumerable  ear  and  talL 
Then,  seated  on  a  serpent-rooted  beech, 
He  pointed  out  a  pasturing  colt,  and  said : 
'That  was  the  four-year-old  I  sold  the  squire.' 
And  there  he  told  a  long,  long-winded  tale 
Of  how  the  eqnire  had  seen  the  colt  at  gra8.«, 
And  how  it  was  the  thing  his  daughter  wish'd. 
And  bow  he  sent  the  bailiff  to  the  farm 
To  learn  the  price,  and  what  the  price  he  ask'd, 
And  how  the  bailiff  swore  that  be  was  mad, 
But  he  stood  firm;  and  so  the  matter  hung; 
He  gave  them  line:  aud  Ave  days  after  that 
He  met  the  bailiff  at  the  Golden  Fleece, 
Who  then  and  there  had  offer'd  something  more, 
But  he  stood  tirm ;  and  so  the  matter  bung ; 
He  knew  the  man;  the  colt  would  fetch  its  price; 
He  gave  them  line:  and  how  by  chance  at  last 
(It  might  be  May  or  April,  he  forgot. 
The  last  of  April  or  the  first  of  May) 
He  found  the  bailiff  riding  by  the  farm, 
And,  talking  from  the  point,  he  drew  him  in, 
Aud  there  be  meilow'd  all  his  heart  with  ale, 
Until  they  closed  a  bargain,  baud  in  hand. 

"Then,  while  I  breathed  in  sight  of  haven,  he. 
Poor  fellow,  could  he  help  it?  recommenced, 
And  rail  thro'  all  the  coltish  chronicle. 
Wild  Will,  Black  Bess,  Tantivy,  Tallyho, 
Reform,  White  Rose,  Bellerophon,  the  Jilt, 
Arbaces  and  Phenomenon,  and  the  rest. 
Till,  not  to  die  a  listener,  I  arose, 
And  with  me  Philip,  talking  still ;  and  so 
We  tnm'd  our  foreheads  from  the  falling  sun, 
And  following  our  own  shadows  thrice  as  long 
As  when  they  follow'd  us  ft-om  Philip's  d«>or, 
Arrived,  and  found  the  sun  of  sweet  content 
Re-risen  in  Katie's  eyes,  and  all  things  welL 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 
I  slide  by  hazel  covers; 
.  I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 
That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  T  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  danco 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 
In  brambly  wildernesses; 


1  ltng«>r  by  my  shingly  iMrat 
I  loiter  round  my  creMMi 


And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  Join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

Tea,  men  may  come  and  go;  and  these  are  gone. 

All  gone.    My  dearest  brother,  Bdniund,  oleep-. 

Not  by  the  well-known  stream  and  rustic  spue, 

But  unfamiliar  Amo,  and  the  dome 

Of  Bruuellcschi ;  sleeps  In  peace:  and  ho. 

Poor  Philip,  of  all  his  lavish  waste  of  words 

Remains  the  lean  P.  W.  on  his  tomb : 

I  scraped  the  lichen  trom  it:  Katie  walks 

By  the  long  wash  of  Australasian  seas 

Par  off,  and  holds  her  head  to  other  stars. 

And  breathes  in  converse  seasons.    All  are  gone." 

So  Lawrence  Aylmer,  seated  on  a  stile 
In  the  long  hedge,  and  rolling  in  his  mind 
Old  waifs  of  rhyme,  and  bowing  o'er  the  brook 
A  tonsured  head  in  middle  age  forlorn, 
Mused,  and  was  tuutc.    On  a  sudden  a  low  brcatli 
Of  tender  air  made  tremble  in  the  hedge 
The  fragile  bindweed-bells  and  briony  rings ; 
And  he  look'd  up.    There  stood  a  maiden  near, 
Waiting  to  pass.    In  much  amaze  he  stared 
On  eyes  a  bashful  azure,  and  on  hair 
In  gloss  aud  hue  the  chestnut,  when  the  shell 
Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit  within : 
Then,   wondering,  ask'd  her,   "Arc  you   from  the 

farm  t" 
"Yes,"  answer'd  she.    "Pray  stay  a  little:  pardon 

me; 
What  do  they  call  yon?"    "Katie."    "That  were 

strange. 
What  surname?"     "Willows."     "No!"     "That  is 

my  name." 
"  Indeed !"  and  here  he  look'd  so  self-perplext. 
That  Katie  laugh'd,  and  laughing  blush'd,  till  he 
Langh'd  also,  but  as  one  before  he  wakes, 
Who  feels  a  glimmering  strangeness  in  his  dream. 
Then  looking  at  her;  "Too  happy,  ft-esh  and  fair, 
Too  treeh  and  fair  in  our  sad  world's  best  bloom, 
To  be  the  ghost  of  one  who  bore  your  name 
About  these  meadows,  twenty  years  ago." 

"Have  yon  not  heard?"  said  Katie,  "we  came 
back. 
We  bought  the  farm  we  tenanted  1)eforc. 
Am  I  BO  like  her?  so  they  said  on  board. 
Sir,  if  yon  knew  her  in  her  English  days, 
My  mother,  as  it  seems  you  did,  the  days 
That  most  she  loves  to  talk  oi;  come  with  ine. 
My  brother  James  Is  in  the  harvest-field : 
But  she— you  will  be  welcome— O,  come  iu  1'' 


THE  LETTERS. 


Still  on  the  tower  stood  the  vane, 

A  black  yew  gloom'd  the  stagnant  air, 
I  peer'd  athwart  the  chancel  pane 

And  saw  the  altar  cold  and  bare. 
A  clog  of  lead  was  round  my  feet, 

A  band  of  pain  across  my  brow ; 
"Cold  altar.  Heaven  and  earth  shall  meet 

Before  you  hear  my  marriage  vow." 


I  tnm'd  and  humm'd  a  bitter  song 
That  mock'd  the  wholesome  human  heart. 

And  then  we  met  in  wrath  and  wrong, 
We  met,  but  only  meant  to  part. 


144 


ODE  ON  THE  DEXtH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 


Full  cold  my  greeting  was  and  dry ; 

She  faintly  smiled,  she  hardly  moved ; 
1  saw  with  half-uncoDBciouB  eye 

She  wore  the  colore  I  approved. 

3. 

She  took  the  little  ivory  chest, 

With  half  a  sigh  she  tnm'd  the  key. 
Then  raised  her  head  with  lips  comprest, 

And  gave  my  letters  back  to  me. 
And  gave  the  trinkets  and  the  rings. 

My  gifts,  when  gifts  of  mine  could  please ; 
As  looks  a  father  on  the  things 

or  his  dead  son,  I  look'd  on  these. 


She  told  me  all  her  Mends  had  said ; 

I  raged  against  the  public  liar; 
She  taik'd  as  if  her  love  were  dead. 

Bat  in  my  words  were  seeds  of  Are. 
"  No  more  of  love ;  your  sex  is  known : 

I  never  will  be  twice  deceived. 
Henceforth  I  trust  the  man  alone, 

The  woman  cannot  be  believed. 


"  Thro'  slander,  meanest  spawn  of  Hell 

(And  women's  slander  is  the  worst), 
And  you,  whom  once  I  lov'd  so  well. 

Thro"  you,  my  life  will  be  accurst." 
I  spoke  with  heart,  and  heat  and  force, 

I  shook  her  breast  with  vague  alarms- 
Like  torrents  from  a  mountain  source 

We  rusb'd  into  each  other's  arms. 


We  parted:  sweetly  gleam 'd  the  stars. 

And  sweet  the  vapor-braided  blue. 
Low  breezes  fiann'd  the  belfry  bars. 

As  homeward  by  the  church  I  drew. 
The  very  graves  appear'd  to  smile,  ' 

So  fresh  they  rose  in  shadow'd  swells ; 
"  Dark  porch,"  I  said,  "  and  silent  aisle, 

There  comes  a  sound  of  marriage  bells." 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE 
OF  WELLINGTON. 

1. 
Brnv  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation, 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a  mighty  nation. 
Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall. 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall. 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  halL 


Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we  deplore  1 
Here,  iu  streaming  London's  central  roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  forevermore. 

3. 

Lead  out  the  pageant:  sad  and  slow, 

As  fits  an  universal  woe, 

Let  the  long  long  procession  go. 

And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it  grow. 

And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow; 

The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 


Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last. 

Remembering  all  his  greatness  iu  the  Past 

No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 

With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street 

O  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  dead : 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring  blood, 

The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  resolute. 

Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence. 

Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime. 

Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 

Great  in  council  and  great  in  war. 

Foremost  captain  of  his  time. 

Rich  in  saving  common-sense. 

And,  as  the  greatest  only  are. 

In  his  simplicity  sublime. 

O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 

O  voice  trom  which  their  omens  all  men  drew, 

O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 

O  fall'n  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 

Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds  that  blew  J        j^ 

Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 

Tlie  long  self-sacriflce  of  life  is  o'er. 

The  great  World-victor's  victor  wrill  be  seen  no  more. 


All  is  over  and  done: 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

England,  for  thy  son. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

lender  the  cross  of  gold 

That  shines  over  city  and  river, 

There  be  shall  rest  forever 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd: 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds: 

Bright  let  It  be  with  his  blazon'd  deeds, 

Dark  in  its  Aineral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  tolled : 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be  knoll'd; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem  roU'd 

Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross ; 

And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his  loss; 

lie  knew  their  voices  of  old. 

For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 

Ills  captain's-ear  has  heard  them  boom 

Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom ; 

When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wronght, 

Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame; 

With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  captain  tanght 

The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 

In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 

Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame. 

In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 

A  man  of  well-attemper'd  f^ame. 

O  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name. 

To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 

To  such  a  name. 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 

And  ever-ringing  avenues  of  song. 


Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honor'd  guest, 
With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier  and  with 

priest 
With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on  my  restf 
Mighty  seaman,  this  is  he 
Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 
Thiue  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous  man. 
The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 
Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums. 
To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes ; 
For  this  is  be 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OK  WELLING1X)N. 


14.1 


Was  graat  by  Imul  na  tbo\x  by  mm  ; 

UU  fuM  w«ra  Uiliie ;  lu>  kept  oa  fraa 

O  Kive  him  wocunie,  this  la  h«, 

Worthy  of  our  gorg«oaa  ritoa, 

And  worthy  to  b«  laid  by  thee; 

For  thla  ia  Bngland'a  great«at  aon, 

lie  that  galn'd  a  bondred  flgbtt, 

Nor  ever  )o«t  au  Bngllah  gnn ; 

Thla  u  he  that  tut  away 

Asaluat  the  royriada  of  Aaaay* 

Claah'd  with  hia  llery  flew  and  won; 

Aud  nnderueath  another  aan, 

Warring  on  a  later  day, 

Rouud  nflrri);hted  Liabon  drew 

The  treble  worka,  the  raat  designa 

ur  hia  labor'd  rampart-IInes, 

Wliere  he  greatly  atood  at  bay, 

Whence  he  iaaned  forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 

Beating  from  the  waatcd  vlnep 

Back  to  Prance  her  banded  awanna, 

Back  to  France  with  conutleaa  blowa, 

Till  o'er  the  hllla  her  eaglea  flew 

Paat  the  Pyreiiean  pinea, 

Fullow'd  Dp  iu  valley  and  glen 

Wlih  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men. 

Roll  of  cannon  aud  claKh  of  arma, 

And  Euijland  pouring  on  her  foes. 

Such  a  wnr  had  8uch  a  cloee. 

Again  their  raveniug  eagle  roee 

Iu  ancer,  wheel'd  on  Europe-shadowing  wlnga, 

And  barkini;  for  the  thrones  of  kiui^f ; 

Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty'a  irou  crown 

Ou  that  loud  eabbath  ahook  the  apoiler  down ; 

A  day  of  onbet6  of  despair ! 

Daah'd  on  every  rocky  square 

Their  surging  charges  foam'd  tliemaelves  away ; 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew : 

Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 

Heaven  flash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray. 

And  down  we  swept  aud  charged  aud  overthrew. 

So  g^at  a  soldier  taught  us  there, 

What  long'^ndurlng  hearts  could  do 

In  that  world's-eartbquakc,  Watericcl 

Mighty  seaman,  tender  and  true, 

And  pure  as  he  fJ-om  taint  of  criiven  guile, 

O  aaviour  of  the  silver-coasted  Isle, 

O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 

If  anght  of  things  that  here  befall 

Tonch  a  spirit  among  things  divine. 

If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all, 

Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by  thine ! 

And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's  voice 

In  full  acclaim, 

A  people's  voice. 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 

A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  aud  game. 

Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 

^llth  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him. 

Eternal  honor  to  hia  name. 


A  people's  voice!  we  are  a  people  yet 
Tho'  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams  forget 
Confbsed  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless  Powers; 
Thank  Him  who  isled  as  here,  and  roughly  set 
Hia  Saxon  in  blown  seaa  and  storming  showers. 
We  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  pay  the  debt 
Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept  it  onrs. 
And  keep  it  onrs,  O  Ood,  from  bmte  control ; 
O  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye,  the  aonl 
Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England  whole. 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom  sown 
Betwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne. 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there  springs 
Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings; 
10 


For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  sav«  mankind 

Till  pablle  wrong  be  cramblsd  into  dusi, 

Aud  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of  mind. 

Till  crowds  at  length  b«  sane  and  crowns  be  Just 

But  wink  no  more  in  alothful  overtrust 

Remember  him  who  led  yonr  hosts; 

He  bade  yoa  guard  the  sacred  coaata. 

Yonr  cannons  moulder  on  the  seawsrd  wall; 

His  voice  Is  silent  iu  your  council-hall 

Forever;  aud  whatever  tempeau  lower 

Forever  silent;  ovcu  if  they  broke  > 

In  thunder,  silent :  yet  remember  all 

He  si>oke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who  spoke ; 

Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour. 

Nor  palter'd  with  Eternal  Ood  for  power; 

Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumor  flow 

Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and  low ; 

Whose  life  was  worlc,  whose  language  rife 

With  nigged  maxims  hewn  flrom  life ; 

Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe: 

Whose  eighty  winters  freese  with  one  rebnko 

All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the  right : 

Truth-teller  was  oar  Eniiland'n  Alfred  named: 

Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke ; 

Whatever  record  leap  to  light 

He  never  shall  be  shamed. 

8. 
Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  bnrial  slowly  borne, 
Follow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 
He,  ou  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 
Lavish  Honor  shower'd  all  her  stars, 
And  nflluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn. 
Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great. 
But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island-story, 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory: 
He  that  walks  ir,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes. 
He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 
Into  glossy  pnrples,  which  outreddeu 
All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story. 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory: 
He,  that  ever  following  her  commands. 
On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands. 
Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has  won 
His  path  upward,  and  prevail'd. 
Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty  scaled 
Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 
To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and  sun. 
Such  was  he:  his  work  is  done. 
But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure, 
I^t  his  great  example  stand 
Colossal,  seen  of  every  land. 
And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman  pure; 
Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human  story 
The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory : 
And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  sa%'ed  from  shame 
For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game. 
And  when  the  loug-illumincd  cities  flame, 
Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame. 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him. 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 

By  some  yet  nnmonlded  tongue 

Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see: 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung : 

O  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 


U6 


THE  DAISY. 


For  one  npon  whose  band  and  heart  and  brain 
Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  bung. 
OurR  the  pain,  be  biH  the  gain  1 
More  than  is  of  man's  degree 
Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 
At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 
Whom  we  see  not  we  revere. 
We  revere,  and  we  refrain 
Prom  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 
And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 
•For  such  a  wise  humility 
As  betits  a  solemn  fane: 
We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 
The  tides  of  Music's  goldeu  sea 
Setting  toward  eternity, 
Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 
Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 
There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 
Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 
And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 
For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 
And  break  the  shore,  and  evennore 
Make  and  break,  and  work  their  wilt : 
Tho'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads  roll 
Round  as,  each  with  different  powers, 
And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 
What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? 
On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  onr  tmst 
Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  {>eople's  ears: 
The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are  sobs  and  teura: 
The  black  earth  yawns  r  the  mortal  diaappears; 
.\8hes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust : 
He  Is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great. — 
Gtone ;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  In  state. 
And  that  be  wears  a  truer  crown 
Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave  him. 
Bnt  speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 
Lny  your  earthly  fancies  down. 
And  In  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 
1809. 


THE    DAISY. 

WRITTEN   AT   EDINBURGH. 

O  LoYB,  what  boars  were  thine  and  mine. 
In  lands  of  palm  and  southern  pine ; 

In  lands  of  palm,  of  orauge-blossom. 
Of  olive,  aloe,  and  maize  and  vine. 

What  Roman  strength  Turbia  show'J 
In  ruin,  by  the  mountain  road ; 

How  like  a  gem,  beneath,  the  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  glow'd. 

How  richly  down  the  rocky  dell 
The  torrent  vineyard  streaming  fell 

To  meet  the  sun  and  sunny  waters, 
That  only  heaved  with  a  summer  swell. 

What  slender  campanlli  grew 

By  bays,  the  peacock's  neck  in  hue; 

Where,  here  and  there,  on  sandy  beaches 
A  miiky-bell'd  amaryllis  blew. 

How  young  Columbus  seem'd  to  rove, 
Yet  present  in  his  natal  grove. 

Now  watching  high  on  mountain  cornice. 
And  steering,  now,  from  a  purple  cove, 

Now  pacing  mute  by  ocean's  rim ; 
Till,  in  a  narrow  street  and  dim, 

I  stay'd  the  wheels  at  Cogoletto, 
And  drank,  and  loyally  drank  to  him. 


Nor  knew  we  well  what  pleased  us  most 
Not  the  dipt  palm  of  which  they  boast: 

But  distaut  color,  happy  hamlet, 
A  moulder'd  citade!  on  the  coast, 

Or  tower,  or  high  hill-convent,  seen 
A  light  amid  its  olives  green ; 

Or  olive-hoary  cape  in  ocean ; 
Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine. 

Where  oleanders  flusb'd  the  bed 
Of  silent  torrents,  gravel-spread ; 

And,  crossing,  oft  we  saw  the  glisten 
Of  ice,  far  np  on  a  mountain  head. 

We  loved  that  hall,  tho'  white  and  cold, 
Those  niched  shapes  of  noble  mould, 

A  princely  people's  awful  princes. 
The  grave,  severe  Genovese  of  old. 

At  Florence  too  what  golden  hours, 
lu  those  long  galleries,  were  ours ; 

What  drives  about  the  f^sh  Casclni', 
Or  walks  In  Boboli's  ducal  bowers. 

In  bright  vignettes,  and  each  complete, 
Of  tower  or  duomo,  Banny>8weet, 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glltter'd. 
Thro'  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  crost  the  Lombard  plain 
Remember  what  a  plagne  of  rain : 

Of  rain  at  Regglo,  r.iin  at  Parma; 
At  Lodi,  rain,  Piacenza,  ralu. 

And  stem  and  sad  (so  rare  the  smiles 
Of  sunlight)  look'd  the  Lombard  piles ; 

Porch-pillars  on  the  Hon  resting. 
And  sombre,  old,  colonnaded  aisles. 

0  Milan,  O  the  chanting  quires. 
The  giant  windows'  blazon'd  fires. 

The  height,  the  space,  the  gloom,  the  glory  < 
A  mount  of  marble,  a  hundred  spires ! 

1  climb'd  the  roofii  at  break  of  day ; 
8nn-«nltten  Alps  before  me  lay. 

I    tood  among  the  silent  statues. 
And  statned  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

How  frtlntly-flush'd,  how  phantom-fair. 
Was  Monte  Rosa,  hanging  there 

A  thousand  shadowy-{>enciird  valleys 
And  snowy  dells  in  a  golden  air. 

Remem1>er  how  we  came  at  last 
To  Como;  shower  and  storm  and  blast 
Had  ulown  the  lake  beyond  his  limit. 
And  all  was  flooded ;  and  how  we  past 

From  Como,  when  the  light  was  gray, 
And  in  my  head,  for  half  the  day. 
The  rich  Virgillan  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxnme,  all  the  way. 

Like  ballad-burthen  music,  kept. 
As  on  the  Lariano  crept 

To  that  fair  port  below  the  castle 
Of  Queen  Theodolind,  where  we  slept : 

Or  hardly  slept,  but  watch'd  awake 

A  cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake, 
The  moonlight  touching  o'er  a  terrace 
One  tall  Agav6  above  tlie  lake. 

What  more?  we  took  our  last  adieu, 
And  up  the  snowy  Splugen  drew, 

Bnt  ere  we  reach'd  the  highest  summit 
I  pluck'd  a  daisy,  I  gave  it  you. 


TO  THE  REV.  F.  D.  MAURICE.— THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE.    147 


It  told  of  BiiKlitnil  Ihon  to  me, 
And  DOW  it  telU  of  Itnly. 

O  lore,  wo  two  •hall  go  bo  longer 
To  Uuda  of  MuniiMr  mtom  Um  mm; 

So  dear  •  lift)  jronr  •rtnii  enfold 
WhuM  crying  la  a  cry  for  gold : 

Yet  here  to-night  in  thl*  dark  city, 
When  ill  and  weary,  aloue  and  culd, 

I  foand,  the'  crush'd  to  hard  and  dry. 
This  uuraeling  of  another  sky 

Still  iu  the  little  book  you  lent  me. 
And  where  you  tenderly  laid  it  by: 

And  I  forRol  the  clouded  Forth, 

The  );I(>um  that  cutddcns  Ileavcu  aud  Earth, 

The  bitter  east,  the  mUty  huninier 
And  gray  metropolU  of  the  North. 

Perchance,  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Perchance,  to  charm  a  vacant  brain, 

Perchance,  to  dream  yon  still  beside  me. 
My  tkncy  fled  to  the  South  again. 


TO  THE  REV.  F.  D.  MAURICE. 

'  CoMx,  when  no  graver  cares  employ, 
God-fltther,  come  and  see  yonr  boy  .- 

Your  presence  will  be  enn  in  winter. 
Making  the  little  one  leap  for  Joy. 

For,  being  of  that  honest  few, 

Who  give  the  Fiend  himself  his  due, 

Should  eighty  thousaud  college  councils 
Thunder  "  Anathema,"  Mend,  at  you : 

Should  all  our  churchmen  foam  in  spite 
At  you,  so  careful  of  the  right. 

Yet  one  lay-hearth  would  give  you  welcome 
(Take  it  and  come)  to  the  Isle  of  Wight; 

Where,  br  fh>m  noise  and  smoke  of  town, 
I  watch  the  twilight  falling  brown 

All  round  a  careless-prder'd  garden 
Close  to  the  ridge  of  a  noble  down. 

You'll  have  no  scandal  while  you  dine. 
But  honest  talk  aud  wholesome  wine, 

Aud  only  hear  the  magpie  gossip 
Garmlous  under  a  roof  of  pine : 

For  groves  of  pine  on  either  band, 
To  break  the  blast  of  winter,  staud ; 
And  further  on,  the  hoary  Channel 
Tumbles  a  breaker  on  chalk  and  sand; 

Where,  If  below  the  milky  steep 
Some  ship  of  battle  slowly  creep, 

And  on  thro'  zones  of  light  and  shadow 
Glimmer  away  to  the  lonely  deep. 

We  might  discuss  the  Northern  sin 
Which  made  a  selfish  war  begin; 

Dispute  the  claims,  arrange  the  chances; 
Emperor,  Ottoman,  which  shall  win : 

Or  whether  war's  avenging  rod 
Shall  lash  all  Europe  into  blood; 

Till  yon  should  turn  to  dearer  matters, 
Dear  to  the  man  that  is  dear  to  God; 

TIow  best  to  help  the  slender  store, 
How  mend  the  dwellings,  of  the  poor ; 

How  gain  in  life,  as  life  advances. 
Valor  and  charity  more  and  more. 


Come,  Maarlce,  comet  the  Uwn  as  yet 
Is  hoar  with  rime,  or  spongy-wet ; 

Bnt  when  the  wrvaUi  of  Mareta  has  bloesom'd, 
Croctia,  aaemoM^  TlolM, 

Or  Uter,  pay  one  visit  here. 

For  thoM  are  few  we  hold  as  den; 

Nor  pay  but  one,  but  come  for  many, 
Many  aud  many  a  happy  year. 
Janutuy,  16S4. 


WILL. 

1. 
O  WKLL  for  him  whose  will  is  strong  1 
He  suffers,  but  he  will  not  suffer  long; 
He  suffers,  but  he  cannot  suffer  wrong: 
For  him  nor  moves  the  loud  world's  random  mock. 
Nor  all  Calamity's  hngest  waves  confound. 
Who  seems  a  promontory  of  rock. 
That,  compaas'd  round  with  turbulent  sound. 
In  middle  ocean  meets  the  surging  shock, 
Tempest-buffeted,  ciudel-crown'd. 

i. 

But  III  for  him  who,  bettering  not  with  time, 

Corrupts  the  strength  of  heaven-descended  Will, 

And  ever  w«aker  grows  thro'  acted  crime. 

Or  seeming-gealal  venial  fault. 

Recurring  and  suggesting  still ! 

He  seems  as  one  whose  footsteps 

Toiling  in  immeasurable  sand, 

And  o'er  a  weary,  snitry  land. 

Far  beneath  a  blazing  vault. 

Sown  in  a  wrinkle  of  the  monstrous  hill, 

The  city  sparkles  like  a  grain  of  salt. 


><. 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 


Half  a  league,  half  a  league. 
Half  a  league  onward. 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
•'  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  I 
"Charge  for  the  guns!"  he  said. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hnndred. 


"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!" 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'df 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  binnder'd : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply. 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why. 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hmidred. 

8. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd . 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  ond  shell, 
Boldiy  they  rode  and  well. 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  month  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


148 


DEDICATION.— ENID. 


Flaeh'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turu'd  in  air, 
Sabriug  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wonder'd : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke, 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke : 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd  and  suuder'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

S. 
Cannon  to  right  of  them. 
Cannon  to  lefi  of  them, 


Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thuuder'd : 
Siorm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them. 
Left  of  six  hundred. 


When  can  their  glory  fade? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made ! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  : 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred ! 


IDYLS    OF    THE    KING 


"FUm  Rafnm  Arthnrat."       ^ 

Joasm  ur  ExCTBS. 


DEDICATION. 

TuF.SE  to  HLb  Memory— since  he  held  them  dear, 
Perchauce  as  finding  there  nnconsciuusly 
Some  image  of  himself— I  dedicate, 
I  dedicate,  I  conaecrate  with  teara — 
These  Idyls. 

And  indeed  He  seems  to  me 
Scarce  other  than  my  own  ideal  knight, 
"Who  reverenced  his  conscience  as  his  king; 
Whose  glory  was,  redressing  human  wrong; 
Who  spake  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen'd  to  it ; 
Who  loved  one  only  and  who  clave  to  her-" 
Her — over  all  whose  realms  to  their  last  isle, 
Commingled  with  the  gloom  of  imminent  war, 
The  shadow  of  His  loes  moved  like  eclipse. 
Darkening  the  world.    We  have  lost  him :  he  is  gone : 
We  know  him  now :  all  narrow  Jealousies 
Are  silent:  and  we  see  bim  as  he  moved, 
How  modest,  kindly,  all  accomplish'd,  wise. 
With  what  sublime  reprei-sion  of  himself 
And  in  what  limits,  and  how  tcuderly ; 
Not  swaying  to  this  faction  or  to  that ; 
Not  making  his  high  place  the  lawless  perch 
Of  wliig'd  ambitions,  nor  a  vantage-ground 
For  pleasure :  but  thro'  all  this  tract  of  years 
Wearing  the  white  flower  of  a  blameless  life, 
Before  a  thousand  peering  littlenesses. 
In  that  fierce  light  which  beats  upon  a  throne. 
And  blackens  every  blot;  for  where  is  he, 
Who  dares  foreshadow  for  an  only  son 
A  lovelier  life,  a  more  unstaiu'd,  than  his  ? 
Or  how  should  England  dreaming  of  hi«  sons 
Hope  more  for  these  than  some  inheritance 
Of  such  a  life,  a  heart,  a  mind  as  thine, 
Tliou  noble  Father  of  her  Kings  to  be. 
Laborious  for  her  people  and  her  poor — 
Voice  in  the  rich  dawn  of  an  ampler  day^ 
Far-sighted  summoner  of  War  and  Waste 
To  fruitful  strifes  and  rivalries  of  peace- 
Sweet  nature  gilded  by  the  gracious  gleam 
Of  letters,  dear  to  Science,  dear  to  Art, 
Dear  to  thy  land  and  ours,  a  Prince  indeed, 
Beyond  all  titles,  and  a  household  name. 
Hereafter,  thro'  all  times,  Albert  the  Good.  ' 

Break  not,  O  woman's-heart,  but  still  endure; 
Break  not,  for  thou  art  Royal,  but  endure. 
Remembering  all  the  beauty  of  that  star 


Which  shone  so  close  beside  Thee,  that  ye  made 
One  light  together,  bat  haa  past  and  left 
The  Crown  of  lonely  splendor. 

May  all  love, 
His  love,  unseen  but  felt,  o'ershadow  Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  sons  encompass  Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  daughters  cherish  Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  people  comfort  Thee, 
Till  God's  love  set  Thee  at  his  side  again 


ENID. 

Tub  brave  Geraint,  a  knight  of  Arthur's  conrt, 

A  tributary  prince  of  Devon,  one 

Of  that  great  order  of  the  Table  Round, 

Had  wedded  Enid,  Yniol's  only  child. 

And  loved  her,  as  he  loved  the  light  of  Heaven. 

And  as  the  light  of  Heaven  varies,  now 

At  sunrii'c,  now  at  sunset,  now  by  night 

With  moon  and  trembling  stars,  so  loved  Geraint 

To  make  her  beauty  vary  day  by  day, 

In  crimsons  and  in  purples  and  in  gems. 

And  Enid,  but  to  please  her  htisband's  eye. 

Who  first  had  found  and  loved  her  in  a  state 

Of  broken  fortunes,  daily  fronted  him 

In  some  fresh  splendor;  and  the  Queen  herself, 

Grateftl  to  Prince  Geraint  for  service  done, 

Loved  her,  and  often  with  her  own  white  bands 

Array'd  and  deck'd  her,  as  the  loveliest. 

Next  after  her  own  self,  in  all  the  court 

And  Enid  loved  the  Queen,  and  with  true  heart 

Adored  her,  as  the  stateliest  and  the  best 

And  loveliest  of  all  women  upon  earth. 

And  seeing  them  so  tender  and  so  close. 

Long  in  their  common  love  rejoiced  Geraint 

But  when  a  rumor  rose  about  the  Queen, 

Touching  her  guilty  love  for  Lancelot, 

Though  yet  there  lived  no  proof,  nor  yet  was  heard 

The  world's  loud  whisper  breaking  into  storm. 

Not  less  Geraint  believed  it;  and  there  fell 

A  horror  on  him,  lest  his  gentle  wife. 

Thro'  that  great  tenderness  to  Guinevere, 

Had  suffered  or  should  suffer  any  taint 

In  nature:  wherefore  going  to  the  king. 

He  made  this  pretext,  that  his  princedom  lay 

Close  on  the  borders  of  a  territory, 

Wherein  were  bandit  earis,  and  caitiff  knights. 


ENID. 


14» 


A8MU•tD^  and  all  flyer*  ttom  the  hand 
Of  Justice,  and  whatever  lonlhcn  a  iaw : 
And  thereforo,  Ull  the  kiug  hiiuaolf  nhould  pIcaM 
To  cleauae  this  common  sewer  of  all  hi»  realm, 
He  craved  a  Ailr  permlaalon  tu  depart. 
And  thprv  dcfond  his  marchee;  and  the  ktng 
Maiwd  fur  a  little  on  his  plea,  bat,  last, 
Allowiii);  it,  the  prince  and  Enid  n>dc, 
And  tiny  kuiKhto  nnle  with  thrnt,  to  the  nhoi«8 
of  Severn,  and  Ihoy  pa.it  to  their  own  laud; 
Where,  thinking,  that  if  ever  yet  was  wU)» 
True  to  her  lord,  mine  shall  be  so  to  me, 
He  compassed  her  with  «wcct  obeervuices 
And  worship,  never  lenviiiK  her,  and  grew 
Forgetftil  of  his  promlxo  to  the  king, 
Foncetftal  of  the  fnlcon  and  the  hunt, 
Forgetftil  of  the  tilt  and  tonrnamcut, 
Por{;etfUI  of  his  );lory  and  him  name, 
For(jeirul  of  him  princedom  and  its  cares. 
And  this  forgetfulncM  was  hateful  to  her. 
And  by  and  by  the  people,  when  they  met 
In  twos  and  threes,  or  fuller  companies. 
Began  to  woff  and  Jeer  and  babble  of  him     • 
As  of  a  prince  whose  manhood  wii»  all  gone. 
And  molten  down  in  mere  uxorlousuess. 
And  this  she  gaihcr'd  from  the  people's  eyes : 
This  too  the  women  who  attired  her  head, 
To  please  her,  dwellhi);  on  his  bonudless  love. 
Told  Enid,  and  they  saddened  her  the  more : 
And  day  by  day  she  thought  to  tell  Geraiut, 
})at  could  nut  ont  of  bashful  delicacy ; 
While  he  that  watch'd  her  sadden,  was  the  more 
Suspicious  that  her  nature  had  a  taint. 

At  last,  it  chanced  that  on  a  summer  mom 
(They  sleeping  each  by  other)  the  new  sun 
Beat  through  the  blindless  casement  of  the  room. 
And  heated  the  strong  warrior  in  his  dreams; 
^Vho,  moving,  cast  the  coverlet  aside. 
And  bared  the  knotted  column  of  his  throat, 
The  massive  square  of  his  heroic  breast. 
And  arms  ou  which  the  standing  muscle  sloped. 
As  slopes  a  wild  brook  o'er  a  little  stone, 
Konning  too  vehemently  to  break  upon  it. 
And  Enid  woke  and  sat  beside  the  couch. 
Admiring  him,  and  thought  within  herself^ 
Was  ever  man  so  grandly  made  as  hef 
Then,  like  a  shadow,  past  the  people's  talk 
And  accusation  of  uxorionsnei'a 
Across  her  mind,  and  bowing  over  him. 
Low  to  her  own  heart  piteously,  she  said : 

"O  noble  breast  and  all-puissant  arms. 
Am  I  the  cause,  I  the  poor  cause  that  men 
Reproach  you,  saying  all  your  force  is  gone? 
I  am  the  cause  because  I  dare  not  speak 
And  tell  him  what  I  think  and  what  they  say. 
And  yet  I  hate  that  he  should  linger  here ; 
I  cannot  love  my  lord  and  not  his  name. 
Far  liever  had  I  gird  his  harness  on  him. 
And  ride  with  him  to  battle  and  stand  by, 
And  watch  his  mightful  hand  striking  great  blows 
At  caitiffs  and  at  wrongers  of  the  world. 
Far  belter  were  I  laid  in  the  dark  earth. 
Not  hearing  any  more  his  noble  voice. 
Not  to  be  folded  any  more  in  these  dear  arms. 
And  darken'd  from  the  high  light  in  his  eyes. 
Than  that  my  lord  through  me  should  suffer  shame. 
Am  I  BO  bold,  and  could  I  so  stand  by, 
And  see  my  dear  lord  wounded  in  the  strife. 
Or  may  be  pierced  to  death  before  mine  eyes. 
And  yet  not  dare  to  tell  him  what  I  think, 
.\nd  how  men  slur  him,  saying  all  bis  force 
Is  melted  Into  mere  effeminacy? 
O  me,  I  fear  that  I  am  no  true  wife." 

Half  inwardly,  half  audibly  she  spoke. 
And  the  strong  passion  In  her  made  her  weep 


Tme  twura  upon  his  broad  and  naked  breast. 
And  these  awoke  him,  and  by  great  mischance 
lie  heard  but  fragmeniii  of  her  later  words, 
And  that  she  fear'd  she  was  not  a  true  wife. 
And  then  he  thought,  "In  spite  of  all  my  care. 
For  all  my  pains,  poor  man,  for  all  my  pains. 
She  la  not  Ikithftil  to  me,  and  I  see  her 
Weeping  for  some  gay  kulght  in  Arthur's  hall." 
Then  tho'  he  loved  and  reverenced  her  too  mnch 
To  dream  ahe  could  be  guilty  of  foul  act, 
Right  thro'  bis  mautal  breast  darted  the  pang 
That  makes  a  man  in  the  sweet  face  of  her 
Whom  he  loves  most,  lonely  and  miserable. 
At  this  he  hurl'd  his  bnge  limbs  out  of  bed, 
.\nd  shook  his  drowsy  squire  awake  and  cried, 
"My  charger  and  her  palfkvy,"  then  to  her, 
"I  will  ride  forth  into  tho  wilderness; 
For  tho'  it  seems  my  spurs  are  yet  to  win, 
I  have  not  fnll'n  so  low  as  some  would  wish. 
And  you,  put  on  your  worst  and  meanest  drew 
And  ride  with  me."    And  Enid  ask'd  amased, 
"  If  Enid  errs,  let  Enid  learn  her  fault." 
But  he,  "  I  charge  you,  a»k  not,  but  obey." 
Then  she  bethought  her  of  a  faded  silk, 
A  faded  mantle  and  a  faded  veil, 
And  moving  toward  a  ccdarn  cabinet. 
Wherein  she  kept  them  folded  reverently 
With  sprigs  of  summer  laid  between  the  folds. 
She  took  them,  and  array'd  herself  therein. 
Remembering  when  first  he  came  on  her 
Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  be  loved  her  in  it. 
And  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the  dress. 
And  all  his  journey  to  her,  as  himself 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the  court. 

For  Arthur  on  the  Whitsuntide  before 
Held  court  at  old  Caerleou  upon  Usk. 
There  on  a  day,  he  sitting  high  in  hall, 
Before  him  came  a  forester  of  Dean, 
Wet  from  the  woods,  with  notice  of  a  hart 
Taller  than  all  his  fellows,  milky-white. 
First  seen  that  day:  these  things  be  told  the  king. 
Then  the  good  king  gave  order  to  let  blow 
His  boms  for  bunting  on  the  morrow  morn. 
And  when  the  Queen  petition'd  for  his  leave 
To  see  the  hunt,  allow'd  it  easily. 
So  with  the  morning  all  the  court  were  gone. 
But  Guinevere  lay  late  into  the  mom. 
Lost  in  sweet  dreams,  and  dreaming  of  her  love 
For  Lancelot,  and  forgetful  of  the  hunt; 
But  rose  at  last,  a  single  maiden  with  her, 
Took  horse,  and  forded  Usk,  and  gnln'd  the  wood ; 
There,  on  a  little  knoll  beside  it,  stay'd 
Waiting  to  hear  the  hounds;  but  heard  instead 
A  sadden  sound  of  hoofs,  for  Prince  Geraint, 
Late  also,  wearing  neither  hunting-dress 
Nor  weapon,  save  a  golden-hilled  brand. 
Came  quickly  flashing  thro'  the  shallow  ford 
Behind  them,  and  so  gallop'd  up  the  knoll. 
A  purple  scarf,  at  either  end  whereof 
There  swung  an  apple  of  the  purest  gold, 
Sway'd  round  about  him,  as  he  gallop'd  up 
To  Join  them,  glancing  like  a  dragon-fly 
In  summer  suit  and  silks  of  holiday. 
Low  bow'd  the  tributary  Prince,  and  she. 
Sweetly  and  statelily,  and  with  all  grace 
Of  womanhood  and  queenhood,  answer'd  him  : 
"  Late,  late.  Sir  Prince,"  she  said,  "  later  than  we  !" 
"Yea,  noble  Queen,"  he  answer'd,  "and  so  late 
That  I  but  come  like  you  to  see  the  hunt. 
Not  join  it."    "Therefore  wait  with  me,"  she  said; 
"  For  on  this  little  knoll,  if  anywhere. 
There  Is  good  chance  that  we  shall  hear  the  bounds ; 
Here  often  they  break  covert  at  our  feet." 

And  while  they  listen'd  for  the  distant  hunt, 
And  chiefly  for  the  baying  of  Cavall, 
King  Arthur's  honnd  of  deepest  moutb,  there  rode 


150 


ENID. 


Full  slowly  by  a  knight,  lady,  and  dwarf; 
Whereof  the  dwarf  lagg'd  latest,  and  the  kuight 
Had  visor  up,  and  show'd  a  youthful  face, 
Imperious,  and  of  haughtiest  lineaments. 
And  Guinevere,  not  mindful  of  his  face 
In  the  king's  hall,  desired  his  name,  and  sent 
Her  maiden  to  demand  it  of  the  dwarf; 
Who  being  vicious,  old,  and  irritable, 
And  doubling  all  his  master's  vice  of  pride. 
Made  answer  sharply  that  she  should  not  know. 
"Then  will  I  ask  it  of  himseH"  she  said. 
"Nay,  by  my  faith,  thou  shalt  not,"  cried  the  dwarf; 
"  Thou  art  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak  of  him ;" 
And  when  she  put  her  horse  toward  the  knight. 
Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she  returu'd 
Indignant  to  the  Queen ;  at  which  Geraiut 
Exclaiming,  "Surely  I  will  learn  the  name," 
Made  sharply  to  the  dwarf,  and  ask'd  it  of  him. 
Who  answer'd  as  before;  and  wbeu  the  Prince 
Had  put  bis  horse  in  motion  toward  the  kuigbt, 
Struck  at  him  with  bis  whip,  and  cat  bis  cheek. 
The  Prince's  blood  spirted  upon  the  scarl^ 
Dyeing  It;  and  his  quick,  Instinctive  band 
Caagbt  at  the  hilt,  as  to  abolish  him: 
But  he,  ft-om  bis  exceeding  manfulueas 
And  pure  nobility  of  temperament, 
Wroth  to  be  wroth  at  such  a  worm,  refraln'd 
From  ev'n  a  word,  and  so  returning,  said : 

"  I  will  avenge  this  Inanlt,  noble  Qaeen, 
Done  Id  your  maiden's  person  to  yourself: 
And  I  will  track  this  vermin  to  their  earths: 
■For  tho'  I  ride  uuarm'd,  I  do  not  doubt 
To  find,  at  some  place  I  shall  come  at,  arms 
On  loan,  or  else  for  pledge ;  and,  being  found. 
Then  will  I  fight  him,  and  will  break  his  pride, 
And  on  the  third  day  will  again  be  here, 
So  that  I  be  not  full'n  In  fight.    FarewelL" 

"  Farewell,  fialr  Prince,"  answer'd  the  stately  Qaeen. 
"  Be  prosperous  in  this  Jonrney,  as  In  all; 
And  may  yon  light  on  all  things  that  you  love, 
And  live  to  wed  with  her  whom  first  yoa  love: 
But  ere  you  wed  with  any,  bring  your  bride. 
And  I,  were  she  the  daughter  of  a  king. 
Yea,  tho'  she  were  a  beggar  fk*om  the  hedge, 
Will  clothe  her  for  her  bridals  like  the  son." 

And  Prince  Geralnt,  now  thinking  that  he  heard 
The  noble  hart  at  bay,  now  the  far  born, 
A  little  vext  at  losing  of  the  bant, 
A  little  at  the  vile  occasion,  rode. 
By  ups  and  downs,  thro'  many  a  grassy  glade 
And  valley,  with  flxt  eye,  following  the  three. 
At  last  they  issued  from  the  world  of  wood, 
And  climb'd  upon  a  fair  and  even  ridge. 
And  show'd  themselves  against  the  sky,  and  sank. 
And  thither  came  Geralnt,  and  underneath 
Beheld  the  long  street  of  a  little  town 
In  a  long  valley,  on  one  side  of  which. 
White  from  the  mason's  hand,  a  fortress  rose: 
And  on  one  side  a  castle  In  decay. 
Beyond  a  bridge  that  spanu'd  a  dry  ravine: 
And  out  of  town  and  valley  came  a  noise 
As  of  a  broad  brook  o'er  a  shingly  bed 
Brawling,  or  like  a  clamor  of  the  rooks 
At  distance,  ere  they  settle  for  the  night 

And  onward  to  the  fortress  rode  the  three. 
And  enter'd,  and  were  lost  behind  the  walls. 
"So,"  thought  Qeraint,  "I  have  track'd  him  to  bis 

earth." 
And  down  the  Ions  street,  riding  wearily. 
Pound  every  hostel  full,  and  everywhere 
Was  hammer  laid  to  hoof,  and  the  hot  hiss 
And  bustling  whistle  of  the  youth  who  sconr'd 
His  master's  armor;  and  of  such  a  one 
He  ask'd,  "What  means  the  tumnlt  in  the  town?" 


Who  told  him,  scouring  still,  "  The  sparrow-hawk  -'* 
Then  riding  close  behind  an  ancient  churl. 
Who,  smitten  by  the  dusty  slopiuij  beam. 
Went  sweating  underneath  a  sack  of  corn, 
Ask'd  yet  once  more  what  meant  the  hubbub  here? 
Who  answer'd  gruffly,  "  Ugh !  the  sparrow-hawk." 
Then,  riding  farther  past  an  armorer's. 
Who,  with  back  turn'd,  and  bow'd  above  his  work. 
Sat  riveting  a  helmet  on  his  knee. 
He  put  the  selfsame  query,  but  the  man 
Not  turning  round,  nor  looking  at  him,  said : 
"Friend,  he  that  labors  for  the  sparrow-hawk 
Has  little  time  for  idle  questioners." 
Whereat  Geralnt  flash'd  Into  sudden  spleen : 
*  A  thousand  pips  eat  up  your  sparrow-hawk ! 
Tits,  wrens,  and  all  wlng'd  nothings  peck  him  dead  \ 
Ye  think  the  rustic  cackle  of  your  bourg 
The  murmur  of  the  world !    What  Is  It  to  me  ? 
O  wretched  set  of  sparrows,  one  and  all. 
Who  pipe  of  nothing  but  of  sparrow-hawks  ! 
Speak,  If  yoa  be  not  like  the  rest,  hawk-mad. 
Where  can  I  get  me  harborage  for  the  night? 
And  ^ms,  arm^  arms  to  fight  my  enemy  ?    Speak  !** 
At  this  the  armorer  taming  all  amazed 
And  seeing  one  so  gay  In  purple  silks, 
Came  forward  with  the  helmet  yet  in  hand 
And  answer'd,  "Pardon  mc,  O  stranger  knight: 
We  hold  a  tourney  here  to-morrow  mom. 
And  there  is  scantly  time  for  half  the  work. 
Arms  1  troth !  I  know  not :  all  are  wanted  here. 
Harborage?  trath,  good  truth,  I  know  not,  save. 
It  may  be,  at  Barl  Ynlol's,  o'er  the  bridge 
Yonder."    He  spoke  and  fell  to  work  again. 

Then  rode  Geraint,  a  little  spleenful  yet. 
Across  the  bridge  that  spann'd  the  dry  ravine. 
There  masing  sat  the  hoary-headed  Earl, 
(His  dress  a  salt  of  (hty'd  magnificence, 
Ouce  fit  for  feasts  of  ceremony)  and  said : 
"Whither,  fair  son?"  to  whom  Geralnt  replied, 
"O  friend,  I  seek  a  harborage  for  the  night." 
Then  Ynlol,  "  Enter  therefore  and  partake 
The  slender  entertainment  of  a  boose 
Once  rich,  now  poor,  but  ever  o|)en-door'd." 
"Thanks,  venerable  fHend,"  replied  Geralnt, 
"So  that  you  do  not  serve  me  sparrow-hawks 
For  sapper,  I  will  enter,  I  will  eat 
With  all  the  passion  of  a  twelve  hours'  fast" 
Then  sigh'd  and  smiled  the  hoary-beaded  Earl, 
And  answer'd,  "Graver  cause  than  yours  is  mine 
To  curse  this  hedgerow  thlef^  the  sparrow-hawk: 
Bat  in,  go  in ;  for,  save  yourself  desire  it. 
We  win  not  touch  upon  him  ev'n  in  jest" 

Then  rode  Geralnt  Into  the  castle  court. 
His  charger  trampling  many  a  prickly  star 
Of  sproated  thistle  on  the  broken  stones. 
He  look'd  and  saw  that  all  was  ruinous. 
Here  stood  a  shatter'd  archway  plumed  with  fem  -. 
And  here  had  fall'n  a  great  part  of  a  tower. 
Whole,  like  a  crag  that  tumbles  from  the  cliff, 
And  like  a  crag  was  gay  with  wilding  flowers : 
And  high  above  a  piece  of  turret  stair. 
Worn  by  the  feet  that  now  were  silent,  wound 
Bare  to  the  sun,  and  monstrous  ivy-stems 
Claspt  the  gray  walls  with  hairy-fibred  arms. 
And  suck'd  the  joining  of  the  stones,  and  look'd 
A  knot  beneath,  of  snakes,  aloft,  a  grove. 

And  while  he  waited  In  the  castle  court 
The  voice  of  Enid,  Ynlol's  daughter,  rang 
Clear  thro'  the  open  casement  of  the  Hall, 
Singing :  and  as  the  sweet  voice  of  a  bird. 
Heard  by  the  lander  in  a  lonely  Isle, 
Moves  him  to  think  what  kind  of  bird  it  Is 
That  sings  so  delicately  clear,  and  make 
Conjecture  of  the  plumage  and  the  form ; 
So  the  sweet  voice  of  Enid  moved  Geraint , 


ENID. 


ira 


And  nind«  him  like  •  man  abrond  at  morn 

WluMi  flrwt  tho  liquid  nolo  IxOnvrd  of  invn 

Coiiit'H  n.vlnx  over  many  a  windy  wave 

To  Hritain,  and  In  April  iiuddonly 

Breaks  from  a  coppice  K^nint'd  with  grMD  and  red, 

And  be  auspenda  hta  couverae  with  a  (Hand, 

Or  it  max  ^  ^*  I*'**''  *>'  '>'*  luuida, 

To  think  or  aay,  "  then  ta  the  niRhtingale  ;** 

So  fiired  It  with  Qeraint,  who  thouKht  and  aald, 

**  Here,  by  God'a  grace,  ia  the  one  voice  for  me." 

It  chanced  the  xoni;  that  Enid  aaug  waa  one 
Of  Fortune  and  her  wheel,  and  Enid  aaug: 

"Tnrot  Fortune,  torn  thy  wheel  and  lower  the 
proud; 
Turn  thy  wild  wheel  thro'  aunshine,  atorm,  and  cloud : 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  lovo  nor  hate. 

"Turn,  Portone,  torn  thy  wheel  with  smile  or 
frown; 
With  that  wild  wheel  wc  ^o  not  up  or  down ; 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are  great. 

"Smile  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  many  lands; 
Frown  and  we  amile,  the  lords  of  our  own  hands . 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 

"Turn,  torn  thy  wheel  above  the  staring  crowd; 
Thy  wheel  nud  thou  are  shadows  in  the  cloud ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate." 

"  nark,  by  the  bird's  song  yon  may  learn  the  nest," 
Said  Yniol :  "  Enter  quickly."    Entering  then, 
Right  o'er  a  mount  of  newly-fallen  stones. 
The  dusty-rafler'd  mnny-cobweb'd  Hall, 
He  found  an  ancient  dnnie  in  dim  brocade; 
And  near  her,  like  a  blossom  vermeil-white, 
That  lightly  breaks  a  faded  flower-sheath. 
Moved  the  fair  Enid,  all  in  faded  silk. 
Her  dan^ter.    In  a  moment  thought  Oeraint, 
"  Here  by  Ood's  rood  is  the  one  maid  for  me." 
But  none  spake  word  except  the  hoary  Earl: 
"  Enid,  the  good  knight's  horse  stands  in  the  court 
Take  him  to  stall,  and  give  him  com,  and  then 
Oo  to  the  town  and  buy  us  flesh  and  wine: 
And  we  will  make  us  merry  as  we  may. 
Our  hoard  ia  little,  but  our  hearts  are  great." 

He  spake:  the  Prince,  as  Enid  past  him,  fain 
To  follow,  strode  a  stride,  but  Yniol  caught 
His  purple  scarf,  and  held,  and  said  "  Forbear ! 
Rest !  the  good  house,  tho'  ruin'd,  O  my  Son, 
Endnres  not  that  her  guest  should  serve  himself." 
And  reverencing  the  custom  of  the  house 
Geraint,  from  utter  courtesy,  forbore. 

So  Enid  took  his  charger  to  the  stall ; 
And  after  went  her  way  across  the  bridge, 
And  reacb'd  the  town,  and  while  the  Prince  and  Earl 
Yet  spoke  together,  came  again  with  one, 
A  youth,  that  following  with  a  costrel  bore 
The  means  of  goodly  welcome,  flesh  and  wine. 
And  Enid  brought  sweet  cakes  to  make  them  cheer, 
And  in  her  veil  enfolded,  manchet  bread. 
And  then,  because  their  hall  must  also  serve 
For  kitchen,  boil'd  the  flesh,  and  spread  the  board. 
And  stood  behind,  and  waited  on  the  three. 
And  seeing  her  so  sweet  and  serviceable, 
Geraint  had  longing  in  him  evermore 
To  stoop  and  kiss  the  tender  little  thumb, 
That  croet  the  trencher  as  she  laid  it  down: 
But  after  all  had  eaten,  then  Oeraint, 
For  now  the  wine  made  summer  in  his  veins, 
Let  his  eye  rove  in  following,  or  rest 
On  Enid  at  her  lowly  handmaid-work. 
Now  here,  now  there,  about  the  dusky  hall : 
Then  suddenly  addrest  the  hoary  BorL 


"  Fair  Boat  and  Karl,  I  pray  ynar  coarteay 
This  sparrow-hawk,  what  is  he,  tall  me  of  htm. 
His  namer  but  no,  good  Aittb,  I  will  not  have  it: 
For  if  he  be  tho  knight  whom  late  (  saw 
Hide  into  that  new  fortreaii  by  your  town. 
White  (Tom  tho  mason's  hand,  then  have  I  sworn 
From  his  own  lips  to  have  It— I  am  Oeraint 
Of  Devon— for  this  morning  when  tho  tjueen 
Ment  her  own  maiden  to  demand  tlio  name. 
His  dwarf,  a  vicious  under-«ha|>ou  thing, 
Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  itho  rcturn'd 
Indignant  to  tho  Queen:  and  then  I  swore 
That  I  would  track  this  caitiflT  to  his  hold. 
And  flght  and  break  his  pride,  and  have  it  of  him. 
And  all  uunrm'd  I  rode,  and  thought  to  And 
Arms  in  your  town,  where  al!  the  men  are  mad : 
They  take  the  rustic  murmur  of  their  boarg 
For  the  great  wave  that  echoes  round  the  world . 
They  would  not  hear  me  speak :  but  if  you  know 
MHiere  I  can  light  on  amu,  or  if  yourself 
Should  have  them,  tell  me,  seeing  1  have  sworn 
That  I  will  break  his  pride  und  Icani  liln  name, 
Avenging  this  great  insult  done  the  (^ueeu." 

Then  cried  Yniol:  "Art  thou  he  Indeed, 
Oeraint,  a  name  far-sounded  among  men 
For  noble  deeds  r  and  truly  I,  when  flret 
I  saw  you  moving  by  me  on  the  bridge, 
Felt  you  were  somewhat,  yea  and  by  your  state 
And  presence  might  have  guess'j  you  one  of  Iboso 
That  eat  in  Arthur's  hall  at  (^amelot. 
Nor  speak  I  now  from  foolish  flattery ; 
For  this  dear  child  hath  often  beard  me  praise 
Your  feats  of  arms,  and  often  when  1  paused 
Hath  ask'd  again,  and  ever  loved  to  hear ; 
So  grateful  Is  the  noise  of  noble  deeds 
To  nobie  hearts  who  see  but  acts  of  wrong : 

0  never  yet  had  woman  such  a  pair 

Of  suitors  as  this  niuideu ;  flrst  Limunrs, 
A  creature  wholly  given  to  brawls  and  wine. 
Drunk  even  when  he  woo'd :  and  be  he  dead 

1  know  not,  but  he  passed  to  the  wild  land. 
The  second  was  your  foe,  the  sparrow-hawk, 
My  curse,  my  nephew,— I  will  not  let  his  uame 
Slip  trom  my  lips  if  I  can  help  it,— he. 

When  I  that  knew  him  fierce  and  turbulent 

Refused  her  to  him,  then  his  pride  awoke : 

And  since  the  proud  man  often  is  the  mean, 

He  sowed  a  slander  in  the  common  ear, 

AfBrming  that  his  father  left  him  gold. 

And  in  my  charge,  which  was  not  render'd  to  him . 

Bribed  with  large  promises  the  men  who  served 

About  my  person,  the  more  easily 

Because  my  means  were  somewhat  broken  Into 

Thro'  open  doors  and  hospitality; 

Raised  my  own  town  against  me  In  the  night 

Before  my  Enid's  birthdiiy,  sack'd  my  house 

From  mine  own  earldom  foully  ousted  mc; 

Built  that  new  fort  to  overawe  my  fHends, 

For  truly  there  are  those  who  love  me  yet; 

And  keeps  me  in  this  ruinous  castle  here, 

Where  doubtless  he  would  put  me  soon  to  death. 

But  that  his  pride  too  much  despises  me: 

And  I  myself  sometimes  despise  myself: 

For  I  have  let  men  be,  and  have  their  way ; 

And  much  too  gentle,  have  not  used  my  power : 

Nor  know  I  whether  I  be  very  base 

Or  very  manful,  whether  very  wise 

Or  very  foolish ;  only  this  I  know. 

That  whatsoever  evil  happen  to  me, 

I  seem  to  sufl'er  nothing  heart  or  limb. 

But  can  endure  it  all  most  patiently." 

"Well    said,  true    heart,"  replied   Geraint,  "but 
arms: 
That  if,  as  I  suppose,  your  nephew  fights 
In  next  day's  tourney  I  may  break  his  pride." 


152 


ENID. 


And  Yuiol  anewer'd :  "  Arms,  indeed,  but  old 
And  rusty,  old  and  rusty.  Prince  Geraiut, 
Are  mine,  and  tlierefore  at  your  asking,  yours, 
But  in  ttiis  tournament  can  no  man  tilt, 
Except  the  lady  he  loves  best  be  there. 
Two  forks  are  flxt  into  the  meadow  ground. 
And  over  these  is  laid  a  silver  wand. 
And  over  that  is  placed  the  sparrow-hawk. 
The  prize  of  beauty  for  the  fairest  there. 
And  this,  what  knight  soever  be  in  field 
Lays  claim  to  for  the  lady  at  his  side. 
And  tilts  with  my  good  nephew  thereupon, 
Who  being  apt  at  arms  and  big  of  bone 
Has  ever  won  it  for  the  lady  with  him. 
And  toppling  over  all  antagonism 
Has  eam'd  himself  the  name  of  sparrow-bawk, 
But  you,  that  have  no  lady,  cauuoi  flghu" 

To  whom  Oeraint  with  eyes  all  bright  replied. 
Leaning  a  little  toward  him,  "  Your  leave ! 
Let  me  lay  lance  in  rest,  O  noble  host. 
For  this  dear  child,  because  1  never  saw, 
Tho°  having  seen  all  beauties  of  our  time, 
Nor  can  see  elsewhere,  anything  so  fair. 
And  if  1  fall  her  name  will  yet  remain 
Untarnlsh'd  as  before ;  but  If  I  live, 
8o  aid  me  Heaven  when  at  mine  uttermost, 
As  I  will  make  her  truly  my  true  wife." 

Then,  howsoever  patient,  Yniol's  heart 
Danced  in  his  bosom,  seeing  better  days. 
And  looking  round  be  saw  not  Enid  there, 
(Who  hearing  her  own  name  bad  slipt  away) 
But  that  old  dame,  to  whom  fiill  tenderly 
And  fondling  all  her  hand  in  bis  he  said, 
"  Mother,  a  maiden  is  a  tender  thing. 
And  best  by  her  that  bore  her  understood. 
Go  thou  to  rest,  but  ere  thou  go  tu  rest 
Tell  her,  and  prove  her  heart  toward  the  Prince." 

So  spake  the  kindly-hearted  Earl,  and  she 
With  frequent  smile  and  nod  departing  found. 
Half  dlcnrrny'd  as  to  her  rest,  the  girl ; 
Whom  first  she  kiss'd  on  either  cheek,  and  then 
On  either  shining  shoulder  laid  a  hand. 
And  kept  her  off  and  gazed  upon  her  face. 
And  told  her  nil  their  converse  in  the  hall. 
Proving  her  heart;  but  never  light  and  shade 
Coursed  one  another  more  on  open  ground 
Beneath  a  troubled  heaven,  than  red  and  pale 
.\cro8s  the  face  of  Enid  hearing  her ; 
W'hllst  slowly  falling  as  a  scale  that  falls. 
When  weight  Is  added  only  grain  by  grain, 
Sank  her  sweet  head  upon  her  gentle  breast ; 
Nor  did  she  lift  an  eye  nor  speak  a  word, 
Rapt  in  the  fear  and  in  the  wonder  of  It; 
So  moving  without  answer  to  her  rest 
She  found  no  rest,  and  ever  fall'd  to  draw 
The  quiet  night  into  her  blood,  but  lay 
Contemplating  her  own  unworthiness ; 
And  when  the  pale  and  bloodless  east  began 
To  quicken  to  the  sun,  arose,  and  raised 
Her  mother  too,  and  hand  in  hand  they  moved 
Down  to  the  meadow  where  the  jousts  were  held, 
•■Vnd  waited  there  for  Ynlol  and  Geraint. 

And  thither  came  the  twain,  and  when  Geraint 
Beheld  her  first  in  field,  awaiting  him. 
He  felt,  were  she  the  prize  of  bodily  force. 
Himself  beyond  the  rest  pushing  could  move 
The  chair  of  Idris.    Yniol's  rusted  arms 
Were  on  his  princely  person,  but  thro'  these 
Princelike  his  bearing  shone;  and  errant  knights 
.\nd  Indies  came,  and  by  and  by  the  town 
Flow'd  in,  and  settling  circled  all  the  lists. 
.\nd  there  they  flxt  the  forks  into  tte  ground. 
And  over  these  they  placed  a  silver  wand, 
And  over  th.it  a  golden  sparrow-hawk. 


Then  Yniol's  nephew,  after  trumpet  blown, 
Spake  to  the  lady  with  him  and  proclaim'd, 
"Advance  and  take  as  fairest  of  the  fair, 
For  I  these  two  years  past  have  won  it  for  thee. 
The  prize  of  beauty."    Loudly  spake  the  Prince, 
"Forbear:  there  is  a  worthier,"  and  the  knight 
With  some  surprise  and  thrice  as  much  disdain 
Tum'd,  and  beheld  the  four,  and  all  bis  face 
Glow'd  like  the  heart  of  a  great  fire  at  Yule, 
So  burnt  he  was  with  passion,  crying  out, 
"  Do  battle  for  it  then,"  no  more ;  and  thrice 
They  clasb'd  together,  and  thrice  they  brake  their 

spears. 
Then  each,  dishorsed  and  drawing,  lash'd  at  each 
So  often,  and  with  such  blows,  that  all  the  crowd 
Wonder'd,  and  now  and  then  from  distaut  walls 
There  came  a  clapping  as  of  phantom  hands. 
So  twice  they  fought,  and  twice  they  breathed,  and 

still 
The  dew  of  their  great  labor,  and  the  blood 
Of  their  strong  bodies,  flowing,  drain'd  their  force. 
But  cither's  force  wa«  match'd  till  Yniol's  cry, 
"Remember  that  great  insult  done  the  C^ueen," 
Increased  Geraint's,  who  heaved  bis  blade  aloft, 
And  crack'd  the  helmet  thro',  and  bit  the  bone, 
And  feli'd  him,  and  set  foot  upon  bis  breast, 
And  said,  "Tbj  name?"    To  whom  the  fallen  man 
Made  answer,  groaning,  "  Edym,  son  of  Nudd  ! 
Aabamed  am  1  that  I  should  tell  it  thee. 
My  pride  la  broken:  men  have  seen  my  fall." 
"Then,  Edym,  eon  of  Nudd,"  replied  Geraint, 
"These  two  things  sbalt  thou  do,  or  else  thou  dicst. 
First,  tbon  thyself,  thy  lady  and  thy  dwarf, 
Shalt  ride  to  Arthur's  court,  and  being  there. 
Crave  pardon  for  that  insult  done  the  Queen, 
And  Shalt  abide  her  Judgment  on  it;  next. 
Thou  sbalt  give  back  their  earldom  to  thy  kin. 
These  two  things  sbalt  thou  do,  or  thou  shnit  die." 
And  Edym  answer'd,  "These  things  will  I  do. 
For  I  have  never  yet  been  overthrown, 
.\nd  tbon  bast  overthrown  me,  and  my  pride 
Is  broken  down,  for  Enid  sees  my  fall !" 
And  rising  up,  he  rode  to  Arthur's  court, 
And  there  the  Queeu  forgave  bim  easily. 
And  being  yoang,  he  changed  himself,  and  grew 
To  hate  the  sin  that  seem'd  so  like  his  own. 
Of  Modred,  Arthur's  nephew,  and  fell  at  last 
In  the  great  battle  fighting  for  the  king. 

Bat  when  the  third  day  fl-om  the  hnnting-morc 
Made  a  low  splendor  in  the  world,  and  wings 
Moved  in  her  ivy,  Enid,  for  she  lay 
With  her  fair  head  in  the  dim-yellow  light, 
Among  the  dancing  shadows  of  the  birds, 
Woke  and  bethought  her  of  her  promise  given 
No  later  than  last  eve  to  Prince  Geraint— 
So  bent  he  seem'd  on  going  the  third  day. 
He  wonid  not  leave  her,  till  her  promise  given— 
To  ride  with  him  this  morning  to  the  court, 
.\nd  there  be  made  known  to  the  stately  Queen, 
And  there  be  wedded  with  all  ceremony. 
At  this  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  her  dress, 
And  thought  it  never  yet  had  look'd  so  mean. 
For  as  a  leaf  in  mid-November  is 
To  what  it  was  in  mid-October,  seem'd 
The  dress  that  now  she  look'd  on  to  the  dress 
She  look'd  on  ere  the  coming  of  Geraint. 
And  still  she  look'd,  and  still  the  terror  grew 
Of  that  strange  bright  and  dreadful  thing,  a  court. 
All  staring  at  her  in  her  faded  silk: 
And  softly  to  her  own  sweet  heart  she  said : 

"This  noble  Prince  who  won  our  earldom  back 
So  splendid  in  his  acts  and  his  attire. 
Sweet  heaven !  how  much  I  shall  discredit  him  ! 
Wonld  be  could  tarry  with  us  here  awhile'. 
But  being  so  beholden  to  the  Prince 
It  were  but  little  grace  in  any  of  us, 


ENID. 


IfiS 


Bent  M  he  Mem'd  on  golnir  thU  third  day, 
To  fwk  »  Mcond  tkrm  at  his  hand*. 
Yot  If  ho  could  but  tarry  a  day  or  two, 
Myaeir  would  work  eye  dim,  and  iluKer  lame, 
Par  Uetar  than  to  much  discredit  him." 

And  Bnid  fril  in  lonirin;;  far  a  dreaa 
All  branrh'd  and  flower'd  with  gold,  a  coetly  ffltt 
«>rher  fpKtd  mother,  given  her  on  the  night 
Before  her  birthday,  three  Md  yenr«  ago. 
That  nlirht  of  lire,  when  Edyrn  Mick'd  their  honte, 
And  srnttrr'd  all  they  had  to  all  the  windu: 
For  while  the  mother  show'd  it,  and  the  two 
Were  turning  and  admiring  It,  the  work 
To  both  appear'd  eo  coetly,  rose  a  cry 
That  Eilym'd  men  were  on  them,  and  they  fled 
With  little  enve  the  jewels  they  had  on, 
Which  beiu;;  sold  and  sold  had  bought  them  bread: 
And  Edyrn'H  men  had  ranght  them  In  their  flight. 
And  placed  them  In  this  ruin ;  and  she  wloh'd 
The  Prince  had  found  her  in  her  anclcut  homo ; 
Then  let  her  fancy  flit  across  4ho  past. 
And  roam  the  goodly  places  that  she  knew; 
And  last  bethonght  her  how  she  used  to  watch, 
Near  that  old  home,  a  pool  of  golden  carp : 
And  one  was  patcli'd  and  blurr'd  and  Instrelees 
Among  his  bnmish'd  brethren  of  the  pool ; 
And  half  asleep  she  made  comparison 
Of  that  and  these  to  her  own  faded  self 
And  the  gay  court,  and  fell  asleep  again : 
And  dreamt  herself  was  snch  a  faded  form 
Among  her  burnl.«h'd  sisters  of  the  pool ; 
}<i)t  this  was  in  the  garden  of  a  king; 
And  tho'  she  lay  dark  in  the  pool,  she  knew 
That  all  was  bright;  that  all  about  were  birds 
Of  snnny  plume  in  gilded  trellis-work  ; 
That  all  the  turf  was  rich  in  plots  that  look'd 
Each  like  a  garnet  or  a  turkis  in  it; 
And  lords  and  ladies  of  the  high  court  went 
In  silver  tissue  talking  things  of  state ; 
And  children  of  the  king  in  cloth  of  gold 
Glanced  at  the  doors  or  gambol'd  down  the  walks-. 
And  while  she  thought  "they  will  not  eec  me,"  came 
A  stately  queen  whose  name  was  Oninevere, 
And  all  the  children  in  their  cloth  of  gold 
Ran  to  her,  crying,  "If  we  have  fish  at  all 
Let  them  be  gold :  and  charge  the  gartleners  now 
To  pick  the  faded  creatnre  trom  the  pool, 
And  cast  it  on  the  mixen  that  it  die." 
And  therewithal  one  came  and  seized  on  her, 
And  Enid  started  waking,  with  her  heart 
All  overshadow'd  by  the  foolish  dream. 
And  lo !  it  was  her  mother  grasping  her 
To  get  her  well  awake;  and  in  her  hand 
A  suit  of  bright  apparel,  which  she  laid 
Flat  on  the  couch,  and  spoke  exnltingly: 

"See  here,  my  child,  how  f^esh  the  colors  look. 
How  fast  they  hold,  like  colors  of  a  shell 
That  keeps  the  wear  and  polish  of  the  wave. 
Why  not?  it  never  yet  was  worn,  I  trow: 
Look  on  it,  child,  and  tell  roe  if  you  know  it" 

And  Euid  look'd,  but  all  confnsed  at  first. 
Could  scarce  divide  it  from  her  foolish  dream. 
Then  suddenly  she  knew  it  and  rejoiced. 
And  answer'd,  "  Yea,  I  know  it :  your  good  gift. 
So  sadly  lost  on  that  unhappy  night : 
Your  own  good  gift  1"    "  Yea,  surely,"  said  the  dame, 
"And  gladly  given  again  this  happy  mom. 
For  when  the  Jonsts  were  ended  yesterday. 
Went  Yniol  thro'  the  town,  and  everywhere 
He  found  the  sack  and  pinnder  of  our  house 
.\ll  scatter'd  thro'  the  house*  of  the  town : 
And  gave  command  that  all  which  once  was  ours, 
Shonld  now  be  ours  again :  and  yester-eve, 
While  you  were  talking  sweetly  with  your  Prince, 
Came  one  with  this  and  laid  it  in  my  hand. 


POr  k>v«  or  Itar,  or  MtkliiK  fiivur  of  na, 

Bmmim  w*  have  oar  Mridon  back  a««lii. 

And  ]raat8r.«ve  I  would  not  tall  you  of  it. 

But  kept  It  for  a  sweet  snrprhM!  at  mom. 

Yea,  truly  la  It  not  a  sweet  surprise  f 

For  I  myself  unwillingly  have  worn 

My  (kded  rait,  as  you,  my  child,  have  yonrs. 

And  howsoever  patient,  Yniol  his. 

Ah,  dear,  he  took  me  fW>m  a  goodly  house. 

With  store  of  rich  apparel,  sumptuous  fare. 

And  page,  and  maid,  and  squire,  and  senet«hal, 

And  pastime,  both  of  hawk  and  honnd,  and  all 

That  appertains  to  noble  maintenance. 

Yea,  and  ho  brought  me  to  a  goodly  honse : 

But  since  our  fortune  slipt  fk-om  sun  to  shade. 

And  all  thro'  that  young  traitor,  cruel  need 

Coustrain'd  us,  but  a  1><*tter  time  has  come; 

So  clothe  yourccif  in  this,  that  better  fits 

Our  mended  fortunes  and  a  Prince's  hrido: 

For  tho'  you  won  the  prize  of  fairest  fair. 

And  tho'  I  heard  him  cull  you  fairest  fair. 

Let  never  maiden  think,  however  fair. 

She  is  not  fairer  in  new  clothes  than  old. 

.\ud  should  some  great  court-lady  say,  the  Prince 

Hath  pick'd  a  ragged-robin  from  the  liedge, 

And  like  a  madman  brought  her  to  the  court. 

Then  were  you  shamed,  and  worse,  might  shame  tho 

Prince 
To  whom  we  are  beholden ;  bnt  I  know. 
When  my  dear  child  is  set  forth  at  her  best, 
That  neither  court  nor  country,  tho'  they  sought 
Thro'  all  the  provinces  like  those  of  old 
That  lighted  on  Qneen  Esther,  has  her  match." 

Here  ceased  the  kindly  mother  out  of  breath : 
And  Enid  listen'd  brightening  as  she  lay; 
Then,  as  the  white  and  glittering  star  of  mora 
Parts  from  a  bank  of  snow,  and  by  and  by 
Slips  into  golden  cloud,  the  maiden  rose. 
And  left  her  maiden  couch,  and  robed  herself, 
Heli)'d  by  the  mother's  carefUl  hand  and  eye, 
Without  a  mirror,  in  the  gorgeous  gown : 
Who,  after,  turn'd  her  daughter  round,  and  said. 
She  never  yet  had  seen  her  half  eo  fair ; 
And  call'd  her  like  that  maiden  in  the  tale. 
Whom  Gwydion  made  by  glamour  out  of  flowen>. 
And  sweeter  than  the  biide  of  Cassivelaun, 
Flur,  for  whose  love  the  Roman  Caesar  first 
Invaded  Britain,  "bnt  we  beat  him  back. 
As  this  great  Prince  invaded  us,  and  we. 
Not  beat  him  back,  but  welcomed  him  with  joy. 
And  I  can  scarcely  ride  with  you  to  court. 
For  old  am  I,  and  rough  the  ways  and  wild : 
But  Yniol  goes,  and  I  ftill  oft  shall  dream 
I  see  my  princess  as  I  see  her  now, 
Cloth'd  with  my  gift,  and  gay  among  the  gay." 

Bnt  while  the  women  thus  rejoiced,  Geraint 
Woke  where  he  slept  in  the  high  hall,  and  call'd 
For  Enid,  and  when  Yniol  made  report 
Of  that  good  mother  making  Enid  gay 
In  snch  apparel  as  might  well  Iwseem 
His  princess,  or  indeed  the  stately  queen, 
He  answer'd,  "  Earl,  entreat  her  by  my  lore. 
Albeit  I  give  no  reason  but  my  wish. 
That  she  ride  with  me  in  her  faded  silk." 
Yniol  with  that  hard  message  went;  it  fell, 
Like  flaws  in  summer  laying  lusty  com : 
For  Enid,  all  abash'd,  she  knew  not  why. 
Dared  not  to  glance  at  her  good  mother's  face, 
But  silently,  in  all  obedience. 
Her  mother  silent  too,  nor  helping  her, 
Laid  from  her  limbs  the  costly-broiiler'd  gift. 
And  robed  them  in  her  ancient  suit  again. 
And  so  descended.    Never  man  rejoiced 
More  than  Geraint  to  greet  her  thns  attired : 
And  glancing  all  at  once  as  keenly  at  her, 
A«  r.ireful  robins  eye  the  delver's  toll, 


154 


ENID. 


Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eyelid  fall, 
But  rested  with  her  sweet  face  satiefled ; 
Then  seeing  cloud  upon  the  mother's  brow, 
Her  by  both  hands  he  caught,  and  sweetly  said : 

"  O  my  new  mother,  be  not  wroth  or  grieved 
At  your  new  son,  for  my  petition  to  her. 
When  late  I  left  Caerleon,  our  great  Queen, 
In  words  whose  echo  lasts,  they  were  so  sweet. 
Made  promise  that  whatever  bride  1  brought. 
Herself  would  clothe  her  like  the  sun  iu  Heaven. 
Thereafter,  when  1  reach'd  this  ruin'd  hold. 
Beholding  one  so  bright  in  dark  estate, 
I  vow'd  that  could  I  gain  her,  our  kind  Queen, 
No  hand  but  hers,  should  make  your  Enid  burst 
Sun  like  from  cloud— and  likewise  thought  perhaps, 
That  service  done  so  graciously  would  bind 
The  two  together;  for  I  wish  the  two 
To  love  each  other :  how  should  Euld  find 
A  nobler  friend  ?    Another  thought  I  had ; 
I  came  among  you  here  bo  suddenly, 
That  tho'  her  gentle  presence  at  the  lista 
Might  well  have  served  for  proof  that  I  was  loved, 
I  doubted  whether  filial  tenderness. 
Or  easy  nature,  did  not  let  itself 
Be  moulded  by  your  wishes  for  her  weal; 
Or  whether  some  flUse  sense  in  her  own  self 
Of  my  contrasting  brightness,  overbore 
Her  fancy  dwelling  In  this  dusky  hall ; 
Aud  such  a  sense  might  make  her  long  for  court 
And  all  lu  dangerona  glories:  and  I  thought. 
That  could  I  someway  prove  such  force  in  her 
Link'd  with  such  love  for  me,  that  at  a  word 
(No  reason  given  her)  she  could  cast  aside 
A  splendor  dear  to  women,  new  to  her, 
And  therefore  dearer ;  or  if  not  so  new, 
Yet  therefore  tenfold  dearer  by  the  power 
Of  lutermltted  custom ;  then  1  felt 
That  I  could  rest,  a  rock  in  ebbs  and  flows, 
Pixt  on  her  faith.    Now,  therefore,  I  do  rest, 
A  prophet  certain  of  my  prophecy. 
That  never  shadow  of  mistrust  can  cross 
Between  ns.    Grant  me  pardon  for  my  thoughU: 
And  for  my  strange  petition  I  will  make 
Amends  hereafter  by  some  gaudy-day, 
When  your  fair  child  shall  wear  your  costly  gift 
Benide  your  own  warm  hearth,  with,  on  her  knees. 
Who  knows?  another  gift  of  the  high  God, 
Which,  maybe,  shall  have  learu'd  to  lisp  you  thanks." 

He  spoke :  the  mother  smiled,  but  half  In  tears, 
Then  brought  a  mantle  down  and  wrnpt  her  iu  It, 
Aud  claspt  and  klss'd  her,  and  they  rode  away. 

Now  thrice  that  morning  Guinevere  had  cllmb'd 
The  giant  tower,  from  whose  high  crest,  they  say, 
Men  saw  the  goodly  hills  of  Somerset, 
And  white  sails  flying  on  the  yellow  aea; 
But  not  to  goodly  hill  or  yellow  sea 
Look'd  the  fair  Queen,  but  up  the  vale  of  Usk, 
By  the  flat  meadow,  till  she  saw  them  come ; 
Aud  then  descending  met  them  at  the  gates. 
Embraced  her  with  all  welcome  as  a  friend. 
And  did  her  honor  as  the  Prince's  bride. 
And  clothed  her  for  her  bridals  like  the  sun ; 
And  all  that  week  was  old  Caerieon  gay. 
For  by  the  hands  of  Dubric,  the  high  saint. 
They  twain  were  wedded  with  all  ceremony. 

And  this  was  on  the  last  year's  Whitsuntide. 
But  Enid  ever  kept  the  faded  silk. 
Remembering  how  first  he  came  on  her, 
Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved  her  In  it. 
And  nil  her  foolish  fears  about  the  dress, 
Aud  all  his  journey  toward  her,  as  himself 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the  court. 

And  now  this  morning  when  he  said  to  her, 
'•  Put  on  your  worst  and  meanest  dress,"  she  found 
And  took  it,  and  array'd  herself  therein. 


0  purblind  race  of  miserable  men. 
How  many  among  us  at  this  very  hour 
Do  forge  a  life-long  trouble  for  ourselves, 
By  taking  true  for  false,  or  false  for  true ; 
Here,  thro'  the  feeble  twilight  of  this  worid 
Groping,  how  many,  until  we  pass  and  reach 
That  other,  where  we  see  as  we  are  seen  1 

So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  Issuing  forth 
That  morning,  when  they  both  had  got  to  horse, 
Perhaps  because  he  loved  her  passionately, 
And  felt  that  temjjest  brooding  round  his  heart. 
Which,  If  he  spoke  at  all,  would  break  perforce 
Upon  a  head  so  dear  in  thunder,  said : 
"  Not  at  my  side  I  I  charge  yon  ride  before. 
Ever  a  good  way  on  before ;  and  this 
I  charge  you,  on  your  duty  as  a  wife. 
Whatever  happens,  not  to  speak  to  me, 
No,  not  a  word  !"  and  Enid  was  aghast ; 
And  forth  they  rode,  but  scarce  three  paces  on, 
When  crying  out,  "  Effeminate  as  I  am, 
I  win  not  fight  my  way  with  gilded  arras, 
All  shall  be  iron;"  he  loosed  a  mighty  purse. 
Hung  at  his  belt,  aud  hnrl'd  it  toward  the  squire. 
So  the  last  sight  that  Enid  had  of  home 
Was  all  the  marble  threshold  flawing,  strown 
With  gold  and  scatter'd  coinage,  and  the  squire 
Chafing  his  shoulder ;  then  he  cried  again, 
"To  the  wilds:"  and  Enid  leading  down  the  track* 
Thro'  which  he  bade  her  lead  him  on,  they  piist 
The  marches,  and  by  bandlt-hauuted  holds, 
Gray  swamps  and  pools,  waste  places  of  the  heni. 
And  wildernesses,  peiiloos  paths,  they  rode : 
Round  was  their  pace  at  first,  but  slacken'd  soon : 
A  stranger  meeting  them  had  surely  thought, 
They  r<^e  so  slowly  and  they  look'd  so  pale. 
That  each  had  snffer'd  some  exceeding  wrong. 
For  be  was  ever  saying  to  himself^ 
"  O  I  that  wasted  time  to  tend  upon  her. 
To  compass  her  with  sweet  observances. 
To  dress  her  beautifully  and  keep  her  true  "— 
And  there  he  broke  the  sentence  in  his  heart 
Abruptly,  as  a  man  npon  bis  tongae 
May  break  it,  when  his  passion  masters  him. 
And  she  was  ever  praying  the  sweet  heavens 
To  save  her  dear  lord  whole  fk'om  any  wound. 
And  ever  in  her  mind  she  cast  about 
For  that  unnoticed  falling  in  herself. 
Which  made  him  look  so  cloudy  and  so  cold ; 
Till  the  great  plover's  human  whistle  amazed 
Her  heart,  and  glancing  round  the  waste  she  fear'd 
In  every  wavering  brake  an  ambuscade. 
Then  thought  again  "  If  there  be  such  In  me. 

1  might  amend  it  by  the  grace  of  heaven. 
If  he  would  only  speak  and  tell  me  of  it." 

But  when  the  fourth  part  of  the  day  was  gone. 
Then  Enid  was  aware  of  three  tall  knights 
On  horseback,  wholly  arm'd,  behind  a  rock 
In  shadow,  waiting  for  them,  caitiffs  all ; 
And  heard  one  crying  to  his  fellow,  "Look, 
Here  comes  a  laggard  hanging  down  his  head, 
Who  seems  no  bolder  than  a  beaten  hound ; 
Come,  we  will  slay  him,  and  will  have  his  horse 
And  armor,  and  his  damsel  shall  he  ours." 

Then  Enid  ponder'd  In  her  heart,  and  said : 
"  I  will  go  back  a  little  to  my  lord. 
And  I  will  tell  him  all  their  caitiff  talk ; 
For,  be  he  wroth  even  to  slaying  me. 
Far  never  by  his  dear  hand  had  I  die. 
Than  that  my  lord  should  suffer  loss  or  shame." 

Then  she  went  back  some  paces  of  return. 
Met  his  tnW  frown  timidly  firm,  and  said : 
"  My  lord,  I  saw  three  bandits  by  the  rock 
Waiting  to  fall  on  you,  and  heard  them  boast 
That  they  would  slay  you,  and  possess  your  horse 
And  armor,  and  your  damsel  should  be  theirs." 


ENID. 


15S 


Be  nuula  k  wratliAii  uwwar.    "  Did  I  wirh 
Yonr  warning  or  yonr  BilAnMr  on*  command 
I  Inid  apon  yon,  not  to  apeak  to  me, 
And  thna  yon  keep  It  \    Well  then,  look— for  now, 
Whether  yon  wtah  me  victory  or  defeat. 
Long  for  my  lUb,  or  hnnsier  for  my  death, 
Touwir  thall  aee  my  rigor  la  not  losL" 

Then  Bnld  waited,  pale  and  eorrowftal, 
And  down  upon  him  bare  the  bandit  three. 
And  at  the  midmoet  charging.  Prince  Oeralnt 
DraTe  the  long  spear  a  cubit  thro'  hia  breaat 
And  ont  beyond;  and  then  against  hia  brace 
Of  comrades,  each  of  whom  had  broken  on  him 
A  lance  that  spllnter'd  like  an  Icicle, 
Swung  firom  his  brand  a  windy  buffet  out 
Once,  twice,  to  right,  to  left,  and  staun'd  the  twain 
Or  slew  them,  and  dismonntlng  like  a  man 
That  skins  the  wild  beast  after  slaying  him, 
Stript  ftrom  the  three  dead  wolves  of  woman  bom 
The  three  gay  salts  of  armor  which  they  wore. 
And  let  the  bodies  lie,  but  bound  the  suits 
Of  armor  on  their  horses,  each  on  each, 
And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the  three 
Together,  and  said  to  her,  "Drive  them  on 
Before  you ;"  and  she  drove  them  thro'  the  waste. 

He  follow'd  nearer:  ruth  began  to  work 
Acrninst  his  anger  in  him,  while  he  watch'd 
The  being  he  loved  best  in  all  the  world, 
With  difficulty  In  mild  obedience 
Driving  them  on:  he  fain  had  epoken  to  her, 
And  loosed  in  words  of  sudden  Are  the  wrath 
And  smonlder'd  wrong  that  burnt  him  all  within  ; 
But  evermore  it  seem'd  an  easier  thing 
At  once  without  remorse  to  strike  her  dead, 
Than  to  cry  "  Halt,"  and  to  her  own  bright  face 
Accuse  her  of  the  least  immodesty : 
And  thus  tongue-tied,  it  made  him  wroth  the  more 
That  she  could  speak  whom  his  owu  ear  had  heard 
Call  herself  false :  and  suffering  thus  he  made 
Minutes  an  age:  but  in  scarce  longer  time 
Than  at  Caerleon  the  full-tided  Usk, 
Before  he  tarn  to  fkll  seaward  again, 
Panses,  did  Enid,  keeping  watch,  behold 
In  the  first  shallow  shade  of  a  deep  wood, 
Before  a  gloom  of  stubboni-shafted  oaks, 
Three  other  horsemen  waiting,  wholly  arm*d. 
Whereof  one  seem'd  tar  larger  than  her  lord. 
And  shook  her  pulses,  crying,  "  Look,  a  prise  t 
Three  horses  and  three  goodly  suits  of  arras. 
And  all  in  charge  of  whom  ?  a  girl :  set  on." 
"Nay,"  said  the  second,  "yonder  comes  a  knight" 
The  third,  "A  craven  1  how  he  hangs  his  head." 
The  giant  answer'd  merrily,  "Yea,  but  one? 
Wait  here,  and  when  he  passes  fall  upon  him." 

And  Enid  ponder'd  in  her  heart  and  said, 
"  I  will  abide  the  coming  of  my  lord, 
And  I  will  tell  him  all  their  villany. 
My  lord  is  weary  with  the  fight  before, 
And  they  will  fall  upon  him  unawares. 
I  needs  must  disobey  him  for  his  good; 
How  should  I  dare  obey  him  to  his  harm  ? 
Needs  mast  I  speak,  and  tho'  he  kill  me  for  it, 
I  save  a  life  dearer  to  me  than  mine." 

And  she  abode  his  coming,  and  said  to  him 
With  timid  firmness,  "  Have  I  leave  to  speak  t" 
He  said,  "  You  take  it,  speaking,"  and  she  spok& 

"There  Inrk  three  villains  yonder  in  the  wood. 
And  each  of  them  is  wholly  arm'd,  and  one 
Is  larger-limb'd  than  you  are,  and  they  say 
That  they  will  fall  upon  yon  while  you  pass." 

To  which  he  flung  a  wrathful  answer  back : 
"And  if  there  were  an  hundred  in  the  wood. 


And  every  man  were  larger-llmh'd  than  I, 
And  all  at  once  nhould  sally  out  upon  me, 
I  swear  it  would  not  ruffle  me  so  much 
As  you  that  not  ubey  me.    Stand  aside, 
.\nd  If  I  fall,  cleave  to  the  bettor  man." 

And  Enid  stood  aaide  to  watt  the  event, 
Not  dare  to  watch  the  combat,  only  breathe 
8hort  flu  of  prayer,  at  every  stroke  a  breath. 
And  he,  she  dreaded  most,  bare  down  apon  htm. 
Aim'd  at  the  helm,  his  Icnco  err'd ;  bat  Qeralnt's, 
A  little  in  the  late  enconnter  strain'd. 
Struck  thro'  the  bulky  bandit's  corselet  home, 
And  then  brake  short,  and  down  his  enemy  toUVi 
And  there  lay  still ;  as  he  that  tells  the  tale. 
Saw  once  a  great  piece  of  a  promontory, 
That  had  a  sapHug  growing  on  it,  slip 
Prom  the  long  shoreKsliff -s  windy  walls  to  the  beach. 
And  there  lie  still,  and  yet  the  sapling  grew : 
So  lay  the  man  transflxt.    His  craven  pair 
Of  comrades,  making  slowlier  at  the  Prince, 
When  now  they  saw  their  bulwark  fallen,  stood; 
On  whom  the  victor,  to  confound,  them  more, 
Spurr'd  with  his  terrible  war-cry ;  for  as  one. 
That  listens  near  a  torrent  moantain-brook, 
All  thro'  the  crash  of  the  near  cataract  bears 
The  drumming  thunder  of  the  huger  tail 
At  distance,  were  the  soldiers  wont  to  bear 
His  voice  In  battle,  and  be  kindled  by  it. 
And  foemen  scared,  like  that  false  pair  who  tam'd 
Plying,  but,  overtaken,  died  the  death 
Themselves  had  wrought  on  mauy  an  innocent. 

Thereon  Oeralnt,  dismounting,  pick'd  the  lance 
That  pleased  him  best,  and  drew  from  those  dead 

wolves 
Their  three  gay  suits  of  armor,  each  from  each. 
And  bound  them  on  their  horses,  each  on  each. 
And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the  three 
Together,  and  said  to  her,  "  Drive  them  on 
Before  you,"  and  she  drove  them  thro'  the  wood. 

He  follow'd  nearer  still ;  the  pain  she  bad 
To  keep  them  in  the  wild  ways  of  the  wood, 
Two  sets  of  three  laden  with  Jingling  arms. 
Together,  served  a  little  to  dieedge 
The  sharpness  of  that  pain  about  her  heart ; 
And  they  themselves,  like  creatures  gently  bom 
But  into  bad  hands  foli'n,  and  now  so  long 
By  bandiu  groom 'd,  prick'd  their  light  ears,  and  felt 
Her  low  firm  voice  and  tender  goveriraent. 

So  thro'  the  green  gloom  ol  the  wood  they  past. 
And  Issuing  under  open  heavens  beheld 
A  little  town  with  towers,  upon  a  rock. 
And  close  beneath,  a  meadow  gemlike  chased 
In  the  brown  wild,  and  mowers  mowing  in  it: 
And  down  a  rocky  pathway  from  the  place 
There  came  a  falr-halred  youth,  that  in  his  hand 
Bare  victual  for  the  mowers :  and  Geraint 
Had  ruth  again  on  Enid  looking  pale: 
Then,  moving  downward  to  the  meadow  ground. 
He,  when  the  fair-bair'd  youth  came  by  blm,  said, 
"Priend,  let  her  eat;  the  damsel  is  so  faint" 
"  Yea,  willingly,"  replied  the  youth  ;  "and  yon. 
My  lord,  cat  also,  tho'  the  fare  is  coarse. 
And  only  meet  for  mowers;"  then  set  down 
His  basket  and  dismounting  on  the  sward 
They  let  the  horses  graze  and  ate  themselves. 
And  Enid  took  a  little  delicately. 
Less  having  stomach  for  it  than  desire 
To  close  with  her  lord's  pleasure ;  but  Geraint 
Ate  all  the  mowers'  victnal  unawares, 
And  when  he  found  all  empty,  was  amaz'd : 
And  "  Boy,"  said  he,  "  I  have  eaten  all,  but  take 
A  horse  and  arms  for  guerdon :  choose  the  best" 
He,  reddening  in  extremity  of  delight 
"My  lord,  you  overi)ay  me  fifty  fold." 


156 


ENID. 


"  You  will  be  all  the  wealthier,"  cried  the  Prince. 

"I  take  it  as  free  gift,  then,"  said  the  boy, 

"  Not  guerdon ;  for  myself  can  easily, 

While  your  good  damsel  rests,  return,  and  fetch 

Fresh  victual  for  these  mowers  of  our  Earl ; 

For  these  are  his,  and  all  the  field  is  his, 

And  I  myself  am  his ;  and  I  will  tell  him 

How  great  a  man  you  are ;  he  loves  to  know 

When  men  of  mark  are  in  his  territory  • 

And  he  will  have  you  to  his  palace  here, 

Aud  serve  you  costlier  thau  with  mowers'  fare." 

Then  said  Geraint,  "  I  wish  no  better  fkre : 
I  never  ate  with  angrier  appetite 
Than  when  I  left  your  mowers  dinnerlese. 
And  into  no  Earl's  palace  will  I  go. 
I  know,  God  knows,  too  much  of  palaces ! 
And  if  he  want  me,  let  him  come  to  me. 
But  hire  us  some  fair  chamber  for  the  night. 
And  stalling  for  the  horses,  aud  return 
With  victual  for  these  men,  and  let  ns  know." 

"Yea,  my  kind  lord,"  said  the  glad  youth,  and  went. 
Held  his  head  high,  and  thought  himself  a  knight, 
And  up  the  rocky  pathway  disappear'd. 
Leading  the  horse,  aud  they  were  left  alone. 

But  when  the  Prince  had  brought  bts  errant  eyes 
Home  from  the  rock,  sideways  he  let  them  glance 
At  Enid,  where  she  droopt:  his  own  false  doom. 
That  shadow  of  mistrust  should  never  cross 
Betwixt  them,  came  upon  him,  and  be  sigh'd; 
Then  with  another  humorous  ruth  rcmark'd 
The  lusty  mowers  laboring  dinnerless. 
And  watch'd  the  sun  blaze  on  the  turning  scythe. 
And  after  nodded  sleepily  in  the  heat. 
But  she,  remembering  her  old  rnin'd  hall. 
And  all  the  windy  clamor  of  the  daws 
About  her  hollow  turret,  plnck'd  the  grass 
There  growing  longest  by  the  meadow's  edge, 
And  into  many  a  listless  amulet. 
Now  over,  now  beneath  her  marriage  ring. 
Wove  and  unwove  it,  till  the  boy  retnm'd 
And  told  them  of  a  chamber,  and  they  went ; 
Where,  after  saying  to  her,  "  If  yon  will, 
Call  for  the  woman  of  the  house,"  to  which 
She  answer'd,  "  Thanks,  my  lord  ;"  the  two  remain'd 
Apart  by  all  the  chamber's  width,  and  mute 
As  creatures  voiceless  thro'  the  fault  of  birth. 
Or  two  wild  men  supporters  of  a  shield. 
Painted,  who  stare  at  open  space,  nor  glance 
The  one  at  other,  parted  by  the  shield. 

On  a  sudden,  many  a  voice  along  the  street. 
And  heel  against  the  pavement  echoing,  burst 
Their  drowse;  and  either  started  while  the  door, 
Push'd  from  without,  drave  backward  to  the  wall. 
And  midmost  of  a  rout  of  roisterers. 
Femininely  fair  and  dissolutely  pale. 
Her  suitor  in  old  years  before  Geraint, 
Enter'd,  the  wild  lord  of  the  place,  Limoura. 
He  moving  up  with  pliant  courtliness, 
Greeted  Geraint  ftill  face,  but  st^lthily. 
In  the  mid-warmth  of  welcome  and  graspt  hand. 
Found  Enid  with  the  corner  of  his  eye, 
And  knew  her  sitting  sad  and  solitary. 
Then  cried  Geraint  for  wine  aud  goodly  cheer 
To  feed  the  snddeu  guest,  and  sumptuously 
According  to  his  fashion,  bade  the  host 
Call  in  what  men  soever  were  his  friends, 
And  feast  with  these  in  honor  of  their  earl ; 
"And  care  not  for  the  cost;  the  cost  is  mine." 

And  wine  and  food  were  brought,  and  Earl  Limonrs 
Drank  till  he  jested  with  all  ease,  and  told 
Free  tales,  and  took  the  word  and  play'd  upon  it. 
And  made  it  of  two  colors ;  for  his  talk. 
When  wine  and  free  companions  kindled  him. 


Was  wont  to  glance  and  sparkle  like  a  gem 
Of  fifty  facets ;  thus  he  moved  the  Prince 
To  laughter  and  his  comrades  to  applause. 
Then,  when  the  Prince  was  merry,  ask'd  Limonrs, 
"  Your  leave,  my  lord,  to  cross  the  room,  aud  speak 
To  your  good  damsel  there  who  sits  apart 
And  seems  so  lonely?"    "My  free  leave,"  he  said; 
"Get  her  to  speak:  she  does  not  speak  to  me." 
Then  rose  Limours  and  looking  at  his  feet. 
Like  him  who  tries  the  bridge  he  fears  may  fail, 
Crost  and  came  near,  lifted  adoring  eyes, 
Bow'd  at  her  side  and  utter'd  wbisperingly : 

"  Enid,  the  pilot  star  of  my  lone  life, 
Enid  my  early  aud  my  only  love, 
Enid  the  loss  of  whom  has  turn'd  me  wild — 
What  chance  is  this  ?  how  is  it  I  see  you  here  i 
Yon  are  in  my  power  at  last,  are  in  my  power. 
Yet  fear  me  not :  I  call  mine  own  self  wild. 
Bat  keep  a  touch  of  sweet  civility 
Here  in  the  heart  of  waste  aud  wilderness. 
I  thought,  but  that  yonr  father  came  between. 
In  former  days  you  saw  me  favorably. 
And  if  it  were  so  do  not  keep  it  back : 
Hake  me  a  little  happier:  let  me  know  it: 
Owe  yoa  me  nothing  for  a  life  half-lost? 
Yea,  yea,  the  whole  dear  debt  of  all  you  are. 
And,  Enid,  you  and  he,  I  see  it  with  Joy- 
Yon  sit  apart,  yon  do  not  speak  to  him. 
Yon  come  with  no  attendance,  page  or  maid, 
To  serve  you— does  he  love  yon  as  of  old  ? 
For,  call  it  lovers'  quarrels,  yet  I  know 
Tho'  men  may  bicker  with  the  things  they  love. 
They  would  not  make  them  laughable  in  all  eyes. 
Not  while  they  loved  them  ;  and  your  wretched  dress, 
A  wretched  insult  on  you,  dumbly  speaks 
Your  story,  that  this  man  loves  yon  no  more. 
Your  beauty  is  no  beauty  to  him  now : 
A  common  chance — right  well  I  know  it— pall'd— 
For  I  know  men :  nor  will  yon  win  him  back. 
For  the  man's  love  once  gone  never  returns. 
But  here  is  one  who  loves  yon  as  of  old ; 
With  more  exceeding  passion  than  of  old : 
Good,  speak  the  word :  my  followers  ring  him  roand : 
He  sits  anarm'd :  I  hold  a  finger  up ; 
They  understand:  no;  I  do  not  mean  blood: 
Nor  need  yon  look  so  scared  at  what  I  say : 
My  malice  is  no  deeper  than  a  moat. 
No  stronger  than  a  wall :  there  is  the  keep : 
He  shall  not  cross  us  more ;  speak  but  the  word : 
Or  speak  It  not;  but  then  by  Him  that  made  roe 
The  one  true  lover  which  you  ever  had, 
I  will  make  use  of  all  the  power  I  have. 
O  pardon  me !  the  madness  of  that  hour, 
When  first  I  parted  from  you,  moves  me  yeL" 

At  this  the  tender  sound  of  his  own  voice 
And  sweet  self-pity,  or  the  fancy  of  it. 
Made  his  eye  moist;  but  Enid  fear'd  his  eyes. 
Moist  as  they  were,  wine-heated  from  the  feast ; 
And  answer'd  with  such  craft  as  women  use. 
Guilty  or  guiltless,  to  stave  off  a  chance 
That  breaks  upon  them  perilously,  and  said: 

"  Earl,  if  yon  love  me  as  in  former  years. 
And  do  not  practise  on  me,  come  with  mom, 
And  snatch  me  from  him  as  by  violence; 
Leave  me  to-night:  I  am  weary  to  the  death." 

Low  at  leave-taking,  with  his  brandisb'd  plume 
Brushing  his  instep,  bow'd  the  all-amorous  Earl, 
And  the  stout  Prince  bade  him  a  lond  good-night 
He  moving  homeward  babbled  to  his  men. 
How  Enid  never  loved  a  man  but  him, 
Nor  cared  a  broken  egg-shell  for  her  lord. 

But  Enid  left  alone  with  Prince  Geraint, 
Debating  his  command  of  silence  given, 


ENID. 


157 


Aud  that  ttM  now  perforce  must  violate  It, 

Held  comnuiiu  with  horaelf;  and  while  ahe  held 

He  fell  aaleep,  nnd  Kiild  had  do  heart 

To  wttlcp  hini,  but  Iuiiik  o'or  hint,  wholly  pteaMd 

Ti>  rtiitl  him  yet  uiiwouiuU'd  nflor  IlKht, 

And  biaar  hlu  brvtithiuK  low  aud  txiualljr. 

AituD  the  roae,  and  atepplug  lightly,  heap'd 

The  plecee  of  bla  armor  In  one  place. 

All  tu  be  there  against  a  sadden  need ; 

Then  dosed  awhile  henel(  but  overtoll'd 

By  that  day'*  ffrief  and  travel,  evermore 

S<'oin'd  rAtchiiif;  at  a  rootluMi  thiini,  aud  thou 

Wi'ut  vlippiiij;  down  horrible  preciplccn. 

And  (itroncly  •trikinR  out  her  llmba  awoke: 

Then  thought  she  beard  the  wild  Karl  at  the  door, 

With  all  bU  rout  of  random  followers, 

Sound  on  a  dreadful  trum|>ct,  HuniinonuiK  her ; 

Which  was  the  red  cuck  Khoutui};  lo  thc>  liKbl, 

A«  the  gray  dawn  stole  o'er  the  dewy  world, 

And  gitromer'd  on  bla-  armor  in  the  room. 

And  once  ajrain  she  rose  to  look  at  it, 

lini  tourh'd  it  unawares:  Jangling,  the  casque 

Felt,  and  he  started  up  and  stared  at  her. 

Then  breaking  his  command  of  silence  giveu, 

8he  told  him  all  that  Earl  Limonrs  had  said, 

Except  the  passage  that  he  loved  her  not ; 

Nor  Ifft  untold  the  craft  herself  bad  used; 

But  ended  with  apology  so  sweet. 

Low-spoken,  and  of  so  few  words,  and  seem'd 

So  Jnstlfled  by  that  necessity. 

That  tho'  he  thought  "was  It  for  him  she  wept 

In  Devon  V  be  but  gave  a  wrathful  groan. 

Saying  "your  sweet  fltces  make  good  fellows  fools 

And  traitors.    Call  the  host  and  bid  him  bring 

Charger  and  palfrey."    So  she  glided  out 

Among  the  heavy  breathings  of  the  house, 

Aud  like  a  household  Spirit  at  the  walls 

Beat,  till  she  woke  the  sleepers,  nnd  returu'd : 

Then  tending  her  rough  lord,  tho'  all  unask'd. 

In  silence,  did  him  service  as  a  squire ; 

Till  issuing  arm'd  he  found  the  host  and  cried, 

"  Thy  reckoning,  friend?"  and  ere  he  leanit  it,  "Take 

Five  horses  and  their  armors,"  and  the  host, 

Suddenly  honest,  auswer'd  in  amaze, 

"My  lord,  I  scarce  have  spent  the  worth  of  one!" 

"You  will  be  all  the  wealthier,"  said  the  Prince, 

And  then  to  Enid,  "Forward!  and  to-day 

I  charge  you,  Enid,  more  especially. 

What  thing  soever  you  may  hear  or  see. 

Or  fancy  (tho'  I  count  it  of  small  nse 

To  charge  you),  that  yon  speak  not  but  obey." 

And  Enid  auswer'd,  "  Yea,  my  lord,  I  know 
Your  wish,  and  would  obey :  but  riding  first, 
I  hear  the  violent  threats  you  do  not  hear, 
I  sec  the  danger  which  you  cannot  see ; 
Then  not  to  give  yon  warning,  that  seems  bard : 
Almost  beyond  me:  yet  I  would  obey." 

"Yea  so,"  said  be,  "do  it:  be  not  too  wise; 
Seeing  that  you  are  wedded  to  a  man, 
Not  quite  mismated  witb  a  yawning  clown, 
Bnt  one  with  arms  to  guard  bis  bead  and  yours, 
With  eyes  to  find  yon  out  however  far. 
And  ears  to  hear  yon  even  in  bis  dreams." 

Witb  that  he  tamed  and  looked  as  keenly  at  ber 
As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver's  toll : 
Aud  that  within  her  which  a  wanton  fool, 
Vt  hasty  judger,  would  have  called  her  gtiilt, 
ilAde  her  cheek  bum  and  either  eyelid  falL 
Aud  Geraint  iook'd  and  was  not  satisfied. 

Then  forward  by  a  way  which,  beaten  broad, 
Led  from  the  territory  of  fitlse  Limours 
To  the  waste  earldom  of  another  earl, 
Doorm,  whom  his  shaking  vassals  call'd  the  Bull, 
Went  Enid  with  her  sullen  follower  on. 
Once  she  Iook'd  back,  aud  when  she  saw  bim  ride 


More  near  by  many  a  rood  than  yestermom, 

It  wellnigh  made  ber  cheerMi  till  Geraiut 

Waving  an  angry  band  aa  who  aboold  say 

"  You  watch  me,"  Knddeued  all  her  heart  again. 

But  while  tile  kuu  yet  ieat  a  dewy  blade, 

The  sound  of  maity  a  heavily-galloping  hoof 

Smote  on  her  ear,  and  turning  round  Mho  saw 

Dust,  and  the  points  of  laucea  bicker  lu  it 

Then  not  to  disobey  her  lord's  behest, 

Aud  yet  to  give  him  warning,  fur  be  rode 

As  if  he  heard  not,  moving  back  she  held 

I  lor  finger  np,  and  pointed  lo  the  dust. 

M  which  the  warrior  iu  bla  obstinacy, 

Becaase  ahe  kept  the  letter  of  his  word 

Was  in  a  manner  pleaded,  and  turning,  nu>n.\ 

And  lu  the  moment  alter,  wild  Liniourh, 

Borne  on  a  black  horse,  like  a  thunder-cloud 

Whose  skirts  are  loosen'd  by  the  breaking  storm. 

Half  ridden  oflf  witb  by  the  thing  he  ro<lc. 

And  all  iu  poNtion  uttering  a  dry  shriek, 

Dnsh'd  on  Ueraint,  who  closed  with  biiu  and  bore 

Down  by  the  length  of  luuce  and  arm  l>cyoud 

The  cropper,  and  so  left  hiui  stuun'd  or  dead. 

And  overthrew  the  next  that  fuUow'd  him, 

Aud  blindly  rnsh'd  on  all  the  rout  bchlud. 

But  at  the  flash  and  motion  of  the  niuu 

They  vaniMh'd  panic-stricken,  like  u  shoal 

Of  darting  fish,  that  on  a  summer  morn 

Adown  the  crystal  dikes  at  Osnielot 

Come  slipping  o'er  their  shadows  on  the  saud, 

But  if  a  man  who  stands  upon  the  brink 

But  lift  a  shining  hand  against  the  sun. 

There  is  not  left  the  twinkle  of  a  fin 

Betwixt  the  cressy  islets  white  in  flower; 

So,  scared  but  at  the  motion  of  the  man. 

Fled  all  the  boon  companions  of  the  Earl, 

And  left  him  lying  in  the  public  way: 

So  vanish  friendships  only  made  iu  wine. 

Then  like  a  stormy  sunlight  smiled  Oeralnt, 
Who  saw  the  chargers  of  the  two  that  fell 
Start  from  their  fallen  lords,  and  wildly  fly. 
Mist  with  the  flyers.    "Horse  and  man,"  he  said, 
"  All  of  one  mind  and  all  right-honest  friends ! 
Not  a  hoof  left :  and  I  methinks  till  now 
Was  honest — paid  with  horses  and  with  arms: 
I  cannot  steal  or  plunder,  no  nor  beij : 
And  so  what  say  yon,  shall  we  strip  him  there 
Your  lover?  has  your  palfrey  heart  enough 
To  bear  his  armor?  shall  we  fast  or  dine? 
No  ?— then  do  you,  being  right  honest,  pray 
That  we  may  meet  the  horsemen  of  Earl  Doorm, 
I  t<K)  would  still  be  honest."    Thus  he  said: 
And  sadly  gazing  on  her  bridle-reins, 
Aud  answering  not  one  word,  she  led  the  way. 

Bnt  as  a  man  to  whom  a  dreadful  loss 
Falls  in  a  far  land  and  he  knows  it  not, 
Bnt  coming  back  he  learns  it,  and  the  loss 
So  pains  him  that  he  sickens  nigh  to  death : 
So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  being  prick'd 
In  combat  with  the  follower  of  Limours, 
Bled  underneath  his  armor  secretly. 
And  so  rode  on,  nor  told  his  gentle  wife 
What  ail'd  him,  hardly  knowing  It  himself. 
Till  his  eye  darken'd  and  his  helmet  wagg'd ; 
And  at  a  sudden  «wen-ing  of  the  road, 
Tho'  happily  down  on  a  bank  of  grass, 
The  Prince,  wittaont  a  word,  from  his  horse  fell. 

And  Enid  heard  the  clashing  of  his  fall. 
Suddenly  came,  and  at  his  side  all  pale 
Dismounting,  loosed  the  fastenings  of  bis  anus. 
Nor  let  ber  trae  hand  falter,  nor  blue  eye 
Moisten,  till  she  had  lighted  on  bis  wound, 
And  tearing  off  her  veil  of  faded  silk 
Had  bared  her  forehead  to  the  blistering  sun. 
And  swathed  the  hurt  that  drain'd  her  dear  lord's  life. 


158 


ENID. 


Then  after  all  was  done  that  hand  could  do, 
She  rested,  and  her  deeolation  came 
Upon  her,  and  she  wept  beside  the  way. 

And  many  past,  but  none*regarded  her, 
For  in  that  realm  of  lawless  turbulence, 
A  woman  weeping  for  her  murder'd  mate 
Was  cared  as  much  for  as  a  snmmer  shower: 
One  took  him  for  a  victim  of  Earl  Doorm, 
Nor  dared  to  waste  a  perilous  pity  on  him : 
Another  hurrying  past,  a  mau-at-arms. 
Rode  on  a  mission  to  the  bandit  Earl ; 
Half  whistling  and  half  singing  a  coarse  song. 
He  drove  the  dust  against  her  veilless  eyes: 
Another,  flying  from  the  wrath  of  Doorm 
Before  an  ever-fancied  arrow,  made 
The  long  way  smoke  beneath  him  m  his  fear; 
At  which  her  palfrey  whinnying  lifted  heel, 
And  scour'd  into  the  coppices  and  was  lost. 
While  the  great  charger  stood,  grieved  like  a  man. 

But  at  the  point  of  noon  the  huge  Earl  Doorm, 
Broad-faced  with  under-fringe  of  russet  beard, 
Bound  on  a  foray,  rolling  eyes  of  prey. 
Came  riding  with  a  hundred  lances  up  -, 
But  ere  he  came,  like  one  that  hails  a  ship, 
Cried  out  with  a  big  voice,  "What,  is  be  deadt" 
"  No,  no,  not  dead !"  she  answer'd  In  all  baate. 
"  Would  some  of  your  kind  people  take  him  ap^ 
And  bear  him  hcnco  out  of  this  cruel  son ; 
Most  sure  am  I,  quite  sure,  be  is  not  dead." 

Then  said  Earl  Doorm:  "Well,  if  be  be  not  dead, 
Why  wail  you  for  him  thus?  you  seem  a  child. 
And  be  he  dead,  I  count  yon  for  a  fool : 
Your  walling  will  not  quicken  him:  dead  or  not, 
Yoir  mar  a  comely  face  with  idiot  tears. 
Yet,  since  the  face  i*  comely — some  of  yon. 
Here,  take  him  up,  and  bear  him  to  our  hall : 
And  If  he  live,  we  will  have  him  of  our  band ; 
And  if  he  die,  why  earth  has  earth  enough 
To  hide  him.    See  ye  take  the  charger  too, 
A  noble  one." 

He  spake,  and  past  awaj, 
But  left  tiTo  brawny  spearmen,  who  advanced. 
Each  growling  like  a  dog,  when  his  good  bone 
.Seems  to  be  pluck'd  at  by  the  village  boys 
Who  love  to  vex  him  eating,  and  he  fears 
To  lose  his  bone,  and  lays  his  foot  upon  it. 
Gnawing  and  growling;  so  the  ruffians  growl'd, 
Fearing  to  lose,  and  all  for  a  dead  man. 
Their  chance  of  booty  ft-om  the  morning's  raid; 
Yet  raised  and  laid  him  on  a  littcr-bier. 
Such  as  they  brought  upon  their  forays  out 
For  those  that  might  be  wounded ;  laid  him  on  it 
All  in  the  hollow  of  his  shield,  and  took 
And  bore  him  to  the  naked  hall  of  Doorm, 
(His  gentle  charger  following  him  unled) 
And  cast  him  and  the  bier  in  which  he  lay 
Down  on  an  oaken  settle  in  the  hall. 
And  then  departed,  hot  in  haste  to  join 
Their  luckier  mates,  but  growling  as  before. 
And  cursing  their  lost  time,  and  the  dead  man. 
And  their  own  Earl,  and  their  own  souls,  and  her. 
They  might  as  well  have  blest  her:  she  was  deaf 
To  blessing  or  to  cursing  save  from  one. 

So  for  long  hours  sat  Enid  by  her  lord. 
There  in  the  naked  hall,  propping  his  head. 
And  chafing  his  pale  hands,  and  calling  to  Wm. 
And  at  the  last  he  waken'd  ft-om  his  swoon. 
And  found  his  own  dear  bride  propping  his  head. 
And  chafing  his  faint  hands,  and  calling  to  him ; 
And  felt  the  warm  tears  falling  on  his  face ; 
And  said  to  his  own  heart,  "She  weeps  for  me;" 
And  yet  lay  still,  and  feign'd  himself  as  dead, 
That  he  might  prove  her  to  the  uttermost, 
And  say  to  his  o^vn  heart,  "She  weeps  for  me." 


But  in  the  falling  afternoon  return'd 
The  huge  Earl  Doorm  with  plunder  to  the  bail. 
His  lusty  spearmen  follow'd  him  with  noise: 
Each  hurling  down  a  heap  of  things  that  rang 
Against  the  pavement,  cast  his  lance  aside. 
And  doflTd  his  helm :  and  then  there  flutter'd  in, 
Half-bold,  half-frighted,  with  dilated  eyes, 
A  tribe  of  women,  dress'd  in  many  hues, 
And  mingled  with  the  spearmen :  and  Earl  Doorm 
Struck  with  a  knife's  haft  hard  agaiust  the  board. 
And  call'd  for  flesh  and  wine  to  feed  his  8i)ears. 
And  men  brought  in  whole  hogs  and  quarter  beeve«, 
Aud  all  the  hall  was  dim  with  steam  of  flesh : 
And  none  spake  word,  but  ail  sat  down  at  once. 
And  ate  with  tumult  in  the  naked  hall. 
Feeding  like  horses  when  you  hear  them  feed : 
Till  Enid  shrank  far  back  into  herself, 
To  shun  the  wild  ways  of  the  lawless  tribe. 
But  when  Earl  Doorm  had  eaten  all  he  would, 
He  roU'd  his  eyes  about  the  hall,  and  found 
A  damsel  drooping  in  a  corner  of  it. 
Then  be  rememl)er'd  her,  and  how  she  wept : 
And  out  of  her  there  came  a  power  u]>on  him. 
And  rising  on  the  sudden  he  said,  "  Eat ! 
I  never  yet  beheld  a  thing  so  pale. 
God's  corse,  it  makes  roe  mad  to  see  yon  weep. 
Eat !   Look  yoorself.   Good  luck  had  your  good  man, 
For  were  I  dead  who  is  it  would  weep  for  me? 
Sweet  lady,  never  since  I  first  drew  breath. 
Have  I  beheld  a  lily  like  yourself. 
And  so  there  lived  some  color  in  your  cheek. 
There  is  not  one  among  my  gentlewomen 
Were  fit  to  .wear  yonr  slipper  for  a  glove. 
But  listen  to  me,  and  by  me  be  mled, 
And  I  will  do  the  thing  I  have  not  done. 
For  yon  shall  share  my  earldom  with  me,  gfrl. 
And  we  will  live  like  two  birds  in  one  nc»t. 
And  I  will  fetch  yon  forage  froin  all  fleld^ 
For  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  wilL" 

He  spoke :  the  brawhy  spearman  let  his  cheek 
Bulge   with   the   unswallow'd  piece,  and  turning, 

stared: 
While  some,  whose  aools  tlie  old  serpent  long  had 

drawn 
Down,  as  the  worm  draws  in  the  wither'd  leaf 
And  makes  it  earth,  btss'd  each  at  other's  ear 
What  shall  not  be  recorded— women  they. 
Women,  or  what  had  been  those  gracious  things. 
But  now  desired  the  humbling  of  their  best, 
Yea,  would  have  helped  him  to  it ;  and  all  at  once 
They  hated  her,  who  took  no  thought  of  them. 
But  answer'd  in  low  voice,  her  meek  head  yet 
Drooping,  "  I  pray  yon  of  your  conrtesy, 
He  being  as  be  is,  to  let  me  be." 

She  spake  so  low  he  hardly  heard  her  speak. 
But  like  a  mighty  patron,  satisfied 
With  what  himself  had  done  so  graciously, 
Assumed  that  she  had  thanked  him,  adding,  "  Yen, 
Eat  and  be  glad,  for  I  account  you  mine." 

She  answer'd  meekly,  "How  should  I  be  glad 
Henceforth  in  all  the  world  at  anything. 
Until  my  lord  arise  and  look  upon  mef" 

Here  the  huge  Earl  cried  out  upon  her  talk. 
As  all  but  empty  heart  and  weariness 
And  sickly  nothing ;  suddenly  seized  on  her. 
And  bare  her  by  main  violence  to  the  board. 
And  thrust  the  dish  before  her,  crying,  "  Eat." 

"No,  no,"  said  Enid,  vest,  "I  will  not  eat. 
Till  yonder  man  upon  the  bier  arise. 
And  eat  with  me."    "Drink,  then,"  he   answer'd. 

"Here!" 
(And  fill'd  a  born  with  wine  and  held  it  to  her), 
"Lo!  I,  myself,  when  flush'd  with  fight,  or  hot, 


ENID. 


IS» 


Uod't  curae,  with  anger— oft«a  I  mywlt;  '  Rom  when  they  iiaw  the  dead  man  rtae,  and  fled 

Before  I  well  hare  drunken,  aearce  ean  aati  :  Yelltng  a«  from  a  apectre,  and  the  two 

Drink  therelbra,  and  the  wine  will  change  yonrwlil.'' ,  Were  left  aluue  together,  and  be  aaldi 


"  Not  to,"  ahe  cried,  "by  Heaven,  I  will  not  drink, 
T'.u  mr  dear  lord  arise  and  bid  me  do  It, 
\:.A  iiriiik  with  me;  and  If  he  rtae  no  more, 
1  uii!  not  look  at  wine  onill  I  die." 

a:  tliiit  he  tam'd  all  rod  and  paced  his  hall, 
Ni>w  t;u«w'd  his  under,  now  his  upper  lip. 
And  coming  np  cloee  to  her,  said  at  last: 
"  Qlrl,  for  I  see  yon  acorn  my  courtesies, 
Take  warning :  yonder  man  la  surely  dead : 
And  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  will. 
Not  eat  nor  drink  t    And  wherefore  wall  for  one. 
Who  pat  your  beauty  to  thix  flout  and  scorn 
By  draaalng  it  in  rags?    Amazed  am  I, 
Beholding  how  yon  butt  against  my  wish. 
That  I  forbear  you  thus :  cross  me  no  more. 
At  least  put  off  to  pleaae  me  this  poor  f^iwn, 
This  silken  rag,  this  beggar-woman'H  weed: 
I  lore  that  beauty  should  go  beautifully  : 
For  see  you  not  my  gentlewomen  here, 
How  gay,  how  suited  to  the  bouse  of  one. 
Who  loTcs  that  beauty  Dhonld  go  beautifully ! 
Rise  therefore:  robe  yourself  in  this:  obey." 

He  spoke,  and  one  among  his  gentlewomen 
Di»play'd  a  splendid  silk  of  foreign  loom. 
Where  like  a  shoaling  aea  the  lovely  blue 
Play'd  into  green,  and  thicker  dowu  the  fV-nnt 
With  Jewels  than  the  sward  with  drops  of  dew. 
When  all  ni);ht  long  a  cloud  clings  to  the  hill. 
And  with  the  dnwn  ascending  lets  the  day 
Strike  where  it  clung :  so  thickly  ehoue  the  gems. 

But  Enid  answer'd,  harder  to  be  moved 
Than  hardest  tyrants  In  their  day  of  power. 
With  life-long  injuries  burning  unavenged, 
And  now  their  hour  bos  come;  and  Enid  said: 

"  III  this  poor  gown  my  dear  lord  found  me  first. 
And  loved  me  serving  in  my  father's  ball : 
In  this  poor  gown  I  rode  with  him  to  court, 
And  there  the  Queen  array'd  me  like  the  8un: 
In  this  poor  gown  he  bade  me  clothe  myvelf, 
When  now  we  rode  upon  this  fatal  quest 
Of  honor,  where  no  honor  can  be  gain'd : 
And  this  poor  gown  I  will  not  cast  aside 
Until  himself  arise  a  living  man. 
And  bid  me  cast  it    I  have  griefs  enough: 
Pray  yon  be  gentle,  pray  yon  let  me  be : 
I  never  loved, can  never  love  but  him: 
Yea,  God,  I  pray  you  of  your  gentleness, 
He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be." 

Then  strode  the  brute  Earl  np  and  down  his  hall. 
And  took  his  russet  beard  between  his  teeth ; 
Last,  coming  up  quite  close,  and  in  his  mood 
Crying,  "  I  count  it  of  no  more  avail, 
Dame,  to  be  gentle  than  ungentle  with  yon : 
Take  my  salute,"  unknightly  with  flat  hand. 
However  lightly,  smote  her  on  the  clreek. 
Then  Enid,  in  her  utter  helplessness. 
And  since  she  thought,  "  he  had  not  dared  to  do  it. 
Except  he  surely  knew  my  lord  was  dead," 
Sent  forth  a  sudden  sharp  and  bitter  cry. 
As  of  a  wild  thing  Uken  in  the  trap. 
Which  sees  the  trapper  coming  thro'  the  wood- 

This  beard  Geraint,  and  grasping  at  his  sword, 
(It  lay  beside  him  in  the  hollow  shield,) 
Made  but  a  single  bound,  and  with  a  sweep  of  it 
Shore  thro'  the  swarthy  neclr,  and  like  a  ball 
The  russet-bearded  head  roll'd  on  the  floor. 
So  died  Earl  Doorm  by  him  he  connted  dead. 
Acd  all  the  men  and  women  in  the  hnll 


**  Knid,  I  have  aaad  yon  worse  than  that  dead  man^ 
Done  you  more  wrong:  we  both  have  undergone 
That  trouble  which  haa  left  me  thrice  your  own : 
Henceforward  I  will  rather  die  than  donbt. 
And  here  I  lay  thia  penance  on  myaelf, 
Not,  tho'  mine  own  ears  heard  yon  yestermorn-- 
You  thought  me  sleeping,  hut  I  heard  you  m\ , 
I  heard  yon  say,  that  you  were  no  true  wife : 
I  swear  I  will  not  ask  your  meaning  in  it: 
I  do  believe  yonraelf  against  yonraeii; 
And  will  henceforward  rather  die  than  donbt." 

And  Enid  could  not  say  one  tender  word. 
She  felt  BO  blunt  and  stupid  at  the  heart: 
She  only  pray'd  him,  "  Fly,  tbey  will  return 
And  slay  you ;  fly,  your  charger  is  without. 
My  paliVey  lost"    "  Then,  Euid,  shall  you  ride 
Behind  me."    "Yea,"  said  Enid,  "lot  us  go." 
And  moving  out  they  found  the  stately  horse. 
Who  now  no  more  a  vassal  to  tho  ihiet, 
But  firee  to  stretch  his  limbs  in  lawful  fight, 
Neigh'd  with  all  gladness  as  they  came,  and  stoop'd 
With  a  low  whinny  toward  the  pair:  and  she 
Kiss'd  the  white  star  upon  his  noble  front. 
Glad  also;  then  Geraint  upon  the  horse 
Mounted,  and  rench'd  a  hniul,  and  on  his  foot 
She  set  her  own  and  climb'd ;  ho  turn'd  his  face 
And  kiss'd  her  climbing,  and  she  cast  her  arm:5 
About  him,  and  at  once  they  rode  away. 

And  never  }-et,  since  high  in  Paradise 
O'er  the  four  rivers  the  first  roses  blew. 
Came  purer  pleasure  unto  mortal  kind, 
Than  lived  thro'  her  who  in  that  perilous  hour 
Put  band  to  hand  beneath  her  husband's  heart, 
And  felt  him  hers  again :  she  did  not  weep, 
But  o'er  her  meek  eyes  came  a  happy  mist 
Like  that  which  kept  the  heart  of  Eden  green 
Before  the  useful  trouble  of  the  rain : 
Yet  not  so  misty  were  her  meek  blue  eyes 
As  not  to  see  before  them  on  the  path. 
Right  in  the  gateway  of  the  bandit  hold, 
A  knight  of  Arthur's  court,  who  laid  his  laneo 
In  rest,  and  made  as  if  to  fall  upon  him. 
Then,  fearing  for  his  hurt  and  loss  of  blood, 
She,  with  her  mind  all  full  of  what  had  chaiiccil, 
Shriek'd  to  the  stranger,  "Slay  not  a  dead  man  ! " 
"The  voice  of  Enid,"  said  the  knight:  but  she, 
Beholding  it  was  Edym  son  of  Nudd, 
Was  moved  so  much  the  more,  and  shriek'd  again, 
"O  cousin,  slay  not  him  who  gave  yon  life." 
And  Edym  moving  frankly  forward  spake: 
"  My  lord  Geraint,  I  greet  you  with  nil  love ; 
I  took  you  for  a  bandit  knight  of  Doorm ; 
And  ffear  not,  Enid,  I  should  fall  upon  him. 
Who  love  you.  Prince,  Vith  something  of  the  love 
Wherewith  we  love  the  Heaven  that  chastens  n*. 
For  once,  when  I  was  np  so  high  in  pride 
That  I  was  half  way  down  the  slope  to  Hell, 
By  overthrowing  me  yon  threw  me  higher. 
Now,  made  a  knight  of  Arthur's  Table  Round, 
And  since  I  knew  this  Earl,  when  I  myself 
Was  half  a  bandit  in  my  lawless  hour, 
I  come  the  mouthpiece  of  our  King  to  Doorm 
(The  King  is  close  behind  me)  bidding  him 
Disband  himself,  and  scatter  all  his  powers. 
Submit,  and  hear  the  Judgment  of  the  King." 

"He  hears  the  Judgment  of  the  King  of  Kings," 
Cried  the  wan  Prince :  "  and  lo  the  powers  of  Doorm 
Are  scatter'd,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  field 
Where,  huddled  here  and  there  on  mound  and  knoll. 
Were  men  and  women  staring  and  airhatit, 
While  some  yet  fled ;  and  then  he  plainlier  told 


100 


ENID. 


"H«  tornci  iu»  lar.-, 
And  kluM  h«r  climbing,  and  ih*  cait  hn  inn* 
About  him,  nod  at  onr*  lb«y  rod*  away." 


How  the  hnsre  Earl  lay  slain  within  his  hall. 
But  when  the  knipht  besonght  him,  "Follow  me, 
Piinee,  to  the  camp,  and  in  the  King'c  own  ear 
Speak  what  has  chanced ;  yon  surely  have  endared 
Strange  chances  here  nlone :"  that  other  flush'd, 
And  hnng  his  head,  and  halted  in  reply. 
Fearing  the  mild  face  of  the  blameless  King, 
And  after  madness  acted  qnestion  ask'd : 
Till  Edym  crying,  "  If  yon  will  not  go 
To  Arthur,  then  will  Arthur  come  to  yon." 
"Enough,"  he  said,  "I  follow,"  and  tliey  went. 
But  Enid  in  their  going  had  two  fears, 
One  from  the  bandit  scatter'd  in  the  field, 
And  one  from  Edyrn.    Every  now  and  then, 
When  Edym  rein'd  his  charger  at  her  side. 
She  shrank  a  little.    In  a  hollow  land. 
From  which  old  fires  have  broken,  men  may  fear 
Fresh  fire  and  ruin.    He,  perceiving,  said : 

"  Fair  and  dear  cousin,  yon  thrtt  most  had  cause 
To  fear  me,  fear  no  longer,  I  am  changed. 
Yourself  were  first  the  blameless  cause  to  make 


My  nature's  prideful  sparkle  in  the  blood 

Break  into  furious  flame;  being  repulsed 

By  Yniol  and  yourself,  I  schemed  and  wrought 

Until  I  overtum'd  him;  then  set  up 

(With  one  main  purpose  ever  at  my  heart) 

My  haughty  jousts,  and  took  a  paramour; 

Did  her  mock-honor  as  the  fairest  fair. 

And,  toppling  over  all  antagonism, 

So  wax'd  In  pride,  that  I  believed  myself 

Unconquerable,  for  I  was  wellnigh  mad: 

And,  but  for  my  main  purpose  in  these  jousts, 

I  should  have  slain  your  father,  seized  yourself. 

I  lived  in  hope  that  some  time  you  would  come 

To  these  my  liste  with  him  whom  best  you  loved; 

And  there,  poor  cousin,  with  your  meek  blue  eyes. 

The  tniest  eyes  that  ever  answer'd  heaven. 

Behold  me  overturn  and  trample  on  him. 

Then,  had  you  cried,  or  knelt,  or  pray'd  to  me, 

I  should  not  less  have  killed  him.    And  you  came,— 

But  once  you  came,— and  with  your  own  true  eyes 

Beheld  the  man  yon  loved  (I  speak  as  one 

Speaks  of  a  service  done  him)  overthrow 


VIVIEN. 


161 


Uj  proad  wtU,  and  my  purpoM  thre«  jreara  old, 

And  Mt  hU  (bo(  Bpon  bm,  and  give  me  life. 

There  waa  I  brokan  down :  there  waa  I  raredt 

Tho'  ihencfl  1  rode  a)I<«hanied,  hatluK  ihc  Ufa 

He  KaTe  me,  meaning  to  be  rid  of  iu 

And  all  the  penance  the  (jueeu  laid  upon  roe 

Wm  but  to  reat  awhile  within  her  court : 

Where  flret  aa  anllen  aa  a  beaat  uew-caiied, 

And  watllntr  to  Iks  treated  like  a  wolf, 

Becanae  I  kiunv  my  deeda  were  known,  I  foand, 

luatead  of  acuruful  pity  or  pnre  acorn, 

8ach  Ana  reeerre  and  uoble  rvticence, 

Manner*  ao  kind,  yet  sutvly,  ouch  a  grace 

Of  tendereat  conrteay,  that  I  bc;;au 

To  glance  behind  roe  at  my  ftirnier  life, 

And  rtnd  that  it  had  been  tho  wolPs  indood : 

And  oft  I  talkM  with  Dubric,  Iho  high  aaiut, 

Who,  with  mild  hciii  of  holy  oratory, 

Subdued  me  soroewhat  to  that  ppntlenesa. 

Which,  when  it  weds  with  manhood,  makes  a  man. 

And  you  were  often  there  about  tho  (^neeu, 

nut  caw  me  not,  or  marked  not  If  you  naw ; 

Nor  dirt  I  care  or  dare  to  speak  with  you. 

Hut  Itept  mycelf  aloof  till  I  waa  changed ; 

And  fear  not,  cousin ;  I  am  changed  indeed." 

He  spoke,  and  Enid  easily  believed. 
Like  simple  noble  natures,  credulous 
Of  what  they  long  for,  good  in  friend  or  foe. 
There  roost  in  those  who  most  have  done  tliem  ill. 
And  when  they  reach 'd  the  camp  the  king  himself 
Advanced  to  greet  them,  and  beholding  her 
Tho'  pale,  yet  happy,  ask'd  her  not  a  word, 
But  went  apart  with  Edyrn,  whom  he  held 
In  converse  for  a  little,  and  rctnrn'd, 
And,  gravely  smiling,  lifted  her  from  horse. 
And  kiss'd  her  with  all  pnreness,  brother-like, 
And  show'd  an  empty  tent  allotted  her, 
And  glaucing  for  a  minute,  till  he  saw  her 
Pass  into  it,  turn'd  to  the  Prince,  and  said : 

"Priuce,  when  of  late  you  pray*d  me  for  my  leave 
To  move  to  your  own  land,  and  there  defend 
Your  marches,  I  was  prick'd  with  some  reproof; 
As  one  that  let  foul  wrong  stagnate  and  be. 
By  having  look'd  too  much  thro'  alien  eyes. 
And  wrought  too  long  with  delegated  hands, 
Not  used  mine  ovni :  but  now  toehold  me  come 
To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all  my  realm, 
With  Edyrn  and  with  others:  have  you  look'd 
At  Edyrn?  have  you  seen  how  nobly  changed? 
This  work  of  his  Is  great  and  wonderful. 
His  very  face  with  change  of  heart  is  changed. 
The  world  will  not  believe  a  man  repents : 
And  this  wise  world  of  ours  is  mainly  right 
Full  seldom  does  a  man  repent,  or  use 
Both  grace  and  will  to  pick  the  vicious  quitch 
Of  blood  and  custom  wholly  out  of  him, 
And  make  all  clean,  and  plant  himself  afresh. 
Bdym  has  done  it,  weeding  all  his  heart 
As  I  will  weed  this  land  before  I  go. 
I,  therefore,  made  him  of  our  Table  Round, 
Not  rashly,  but  have  proved  him  every  way 
One  of  our  noblest,  our  most  valorous. 
Sanest  and  most  obedient :  and  indeed 
This  work  of  Edyrn  wrought  upon  himself 
After  a  life  of  violence,  seems  to  me 
A  thousand-fold  more  great  and  wonderftal 
Than  if  some  knight  of  mine,  risking  his  life. 
My  subject  with  my  subjects  under  him, 
Should  make  an  onslaught  single  on  a  realm 
Of  robbers,  tho'  he  slew  them  one  by  one. 
And  were  himself  nigh  wonnded  to  the  death." 

So  spake  the  King ;  low  bow'd  the  Prince,  and  felt 
His  work  was  neither  great  nor  wonderful. 
And  past  to  Enid's  tent;  and  thither  came 
The  King's  own  leech  to  look  into  his  hart ; 
11 


And  Bnid  tended  un  him  there;  and  there 
Her  constant  moiiou  round  htm,  and  the  breath 
Of  her  awoct  tendance  hovering  over  hiro, 
FlU'd  all  the  genial  courses  of  his  blood 
With  deeper  and  with  ever  doc|ier  love, 
Aa  th«  sooth-west  that  blowing  Bala  lake 
Ptila  all  the  sacred  Dee.    So  past  the  daya. 

Rut  while  Geraint  lay  healing  of  his  hurt. 
The  blameless  King  went  forili  and  cast  his  eyas 
On  whom  his  father  Ulher  left  In  charge 
Long  since,  to  guard  tho  Justice  of  the  King: 
He  look'd  and  found  them  wanting:  and  as  now 
Men  weed  the  M-bite  horse  on  the  Berkshire  hilU 
To  keep  htm  bright  and  clean  ns  heretofore. 
He  rooted  out  the  slothful  officer 
Or  guilty,  which  for  bribe  had  wink'd  at  wrong, 
And  in  their  chairs  set  up  a  stronger  race 
i  With  hearts  and  hands,  and  sent  a  thousand  men 
To  till  the  waates,  and  moving  everywhere 
Clear'd  the  dark  places  and  let  in  the  law. 
And  broke  the  bandit  holda  and  cleansed  the  land. 

Tlicn,  when  Geraint  was  whole  again,  they  past 
With  Arthur  to  Caerlcon  upon  I'ok. 
There  the  great  Queen  once  more  embraced  her  friend, 
And  clothed  her  in  apparel  like  the  day. 
And  tho'  Geraint  could  never  take  again 
That  comfort  from  their  converse  which  he  took 
Iteforc  the  (juecn's  fair  name  waa  breathed  upon, 
Ue  rested  well  content  that  all  was  well. 
Thence  after  tarrying  for  a  space  they  rode. 
And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them  to  the  shorca 
Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own  land. 
And  there  he  kept  the  justice  of  the  King 
So  vigorously  yet  mildly,  that  all  hearts 
Applauded,  and  the  spiiefui  whisper  died : 
And  being  ever  foremost  in  the  chase. 
And  victor  at  the  tilt  and  tournament, 
They  call'd  him  the  great  Prince  and  man  of  men. 
Bnt  Enid,  whom  her  ladies  loved  to  call 
Enid  the  Fair,  a  grateful  people  named 
Enid  tiie  Good;  and  in  their  halls  arose 
The  cry  of  children,  Enids  and  Geraints 
Of  times  to  be ;  nor  did  he  doubt  her  more 
But  rested  in  her  fealty,  till  he  crown'd 
A  happy  life  with  a  fair  death,  and  fell 
Against  the  heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea 
In  battle,  fighting  for  the  blameless  King. 


VIVIEN. 

A  STORM  was  coming,  but  the  winds  were  still, 
And  iu  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliaudc, 
Before  an  oak,  so  hollow  huge  and  old 
It  look'd  a  tower  of  ruin'd  masonwork. 
At  Merlin's  feet  the  wily  Vivien  lay. 

The  wily  Vivien  stole  from  Arthur's  court: 
She  hated  all  the  knights,  and  heard  in  thought 
Their  lavish  comment  when  her  name  was  named. 
For  once,  when  Arthur  walking  all  alone, 
Vext  at  a  rumor  rife  about  the  Queen, 
Had  met  her,  Vivien,  being  greeted  fair. 
Would  fain  have  wrought  upon  his  clondy  mood 
With  reverent  eyes  mock-loyal,  shaken  voice. 
And  flutter'd  adoration,  and  at  last 
With  dark  sweet  hints  of  some  who  prized  him  more 
Than  who  should  prize  him  most ;  at  which  the  King 
Had  gazed  upon  her  blankly  and  gone  by : 
Bnt  one  had  watch'd,  and  had  not  held  his  peace : 
It  made  the  laughter  of  an  afternoon 
That  Vivien  should  attempt  the  blameless  King. 
And  after  that,  she  set  herself  to  gain 
Him,  the  most  Cunoos  man  of  all  those  times, 


162 


VIVIEN. 


Merlin,  who  koew  the  range  of  all  their  arts, 
Had  built  the  King  his  havens,  ships,  and  halls. 
Was  also  Bard,  and  knew  the  starry  heavens; 
The  people  called  him  Wizard;  whom  at  first 
She  play'd  about  with  slight  and  sprightly  talk, 
And  vivid  smiles,  and  faiutly-venom'd  pointa 
Of  slander,  glancing  here  and  grazing  there; 
And  yielding  to  his  kindlier  moods,  the  Seer 
Would  watch  her  at  her  petulance,  and  play, 
Ev'n  when  they  eeem'd  unlovable,  and  laugh 
As  those  that  watch  a  kitten :  thus  he  grew 
Tolerant  of  what  he  half  disdain'd,  and  she, 
Perceiving  that  she  was  but  half  disdaiu'd. 
Began  to  break  her  sports  with  graver  fits. 
Turn  red  or  pale,  would  often  when  they  met 
Sigh  fully,  or  all-silent  gaze  upon  him 
With  such  a  flxt  devotion,  that  the  old  man, 
Tho'  doubtful,  felt  the  flattery,  and  at  times 
Would  flatter  his  own  wish  in  age  for  love. 
And  half  believe  her  true;  for  thus  at  times 
He  waver'd ;  but  that  other  clung  to  him, 
Fixt  in  her  will,  and  so  the  seasons  went. 
Then  fell  upon  him  a  great  melancholy; 
And  leaving  Arthur's  court  he  gaiu'd  the  beach ; 
There  found  u  little  boat,  and  stcpt  into  it; 
And  Vivien  follow'd,  but  be  mark'd  her  not. 
She  took  the  helm  and  he  the  sail ;  the  boat 
Urave  with  a  sudden  wind  across  the  deeps. 
And  touching  Breton  sands  they  disembark'd. 
And  then  she  follow'd  Merlin  all  the  way, 
Ev'n  to  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande. 
For  Merlin  once  bad  told  her  of  a  charm, 
The  which  if  any  wrought  ou  any  one 
With  woven  paces  and  with  waving  arms. 
The  man  so  wrought  on  ever  secm'd  to  lie 
Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a  hollow  tower. 
From  which  was  no  escape  forevermure; 
And  none  conld  find  that  man  forevermore, 
Nor  could  he  see  but  him  who  wrought  the  charm 
Coming  and  going,  and  he  lay  ns  dead 
And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and  fame. 
And  Vivien  ever  sought  to  work  the  charm 
Upon  the  great  Enchanter  of  the  Time, 
As  fancying  that  her  glory  woald  be  great 
According  to  his  greatness  whom  she  qnench'd. 

There  lay  she  all  her  length  and  kiss'd  his  feet. 
As  if  in  deepest  reverence  and  in  love. 
A  twist  of  gold  was  round  her  hair;  a  robe 
Of  samite  without  price,  that  more  exprest 
Than  hid  her,  clung  about  her  lissome  limbe, 
In  color  like  the  satin-shining  palm 
On  sallows  in  the  windy  gleams  of  March : 
And  while  she  kiss'd  them,  crying,  "Trample  me, 
Dear  feet,  that  I  have  follow'd  thro'  the  world, 
And  I  will  pay  yon  worship ;  tread  me  down 
And  I  will  kiss  yon  for  it;"  he  was  mute: 
So  dark  a  forethought  roll'd  about  hU  brain, 
As  on  a  dull  day  in  an  Ocean  cave 
The  blind  wave  feeling  round  his  long  sea-hall 
In  silence:  wherefore,  when  she  lifted  up 
A  face  of  sad  appeal,  and  spake  and  said, 
"O  Merlin,  do  yon  love  me?"  and  again, 
"O  Merlin,  do  you  love  me?"  and  once  more, 
"  Great  Master,  do  yon  love  me  ?"  he  was  mute. 
And  lissome  Vivien,  holding  by  his  heel, 
Writhed  toward  him,  slided  np  his  knee  and  sat, 
Behind  his  ankle  twined  her  hollow  feet 
Together,  curved  an  arm  about  his  neck. 
Clung  like  a  snake ;  and  letting  her  left  hand 
Droop  f^om  his  mighty  shoulder  as  a  leaf. 
Made  with  her  right  a  comb  of  pearl  to  part 
The  lists  of  snch  a  beard  as  youth  gone  ont 
Had  left  in  ashes:  then  he  spoke  and  said. 
Not  looking  at  her,  "Who  are  wise  in  love 
Love  most,  say  least,"  and  Vivien  answer'd  quick, 
"  I  saw  the  little  elf-god  eyeless  once 
In  Arthur's  arras  hall  at  Camelot: 


But  neither  eyes  nor  tongue, — O  stupid  child': 

Yet  yon  are  wise  who  say  it ;  let  me  think 

Silence  is  wisdom:  I  am  silent  then 

And  ask  no  kiss;"  then  adding  all  at  once, 

"And  lo,  I  clothe  myself  with  wii-dom,"  drew 

The  vast  and  shaggy  mantle  of  \m  beard 

Across  her  neck  and  bosom  to  her  kuee. 

And  call'd  herself  a  gilded  summer  fly 

Caught  in  a  great  old  tyrant  spider's  web, 

Who  meant  to  eat  her  up  in  that  wild  wood 

Without  one  word.    So  Vivien  call'd  herself, 

But  rather  seem'd  a  lovely  baleful  star 

Veil'd  in  gray  vapor;  till  he  sadly  smiled: 

"To  what  request  for  what  strange  boon,"  he  said, 

"Are  these  your  pretty  tricks  and  fooleries, 

0  Vivien,  the  preamble?  yet  my  thanks. 
For  these  have  broken  up  my  melancholy." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  saucily, 

"  What,  O  my  Master,  have  you  found  your  voice  r 

1  bid  the  stranger  welcome.    Thanks  at  lai>t ! 
But  yesterday  you  never  opeu'd  lip. 
Except  indeed  to  drink:  no  cup  had  we: 

In  mine  own  lady  palms  I  cuU'd  the  spring 
That  gather'd  trickling  dropwise  from  the  cleft. 
And  made  a  pretty  cup  of  both  my  hands 
And  oflTer'd  you  it  kneeling:  then  you  drank 
And  knew  no  more,  nor  gave  me  one  poor  word ; 

0  no  more  thanks  than  might  a  goat  have  given 
With  no  more  sign  of  reverence  than  a  beard. 
And  when  we  halted  at  that  other  well. 

And  I  was  faint  to  swooning,  and  you  lay 
Foot-gilt  with  all  the  blossom-dust  of  tboee 
Deep  meadows  we  had  traversed,  did  you  know 
That  Vivien  bathed  your  feet  l)efore  her  own  ? 
And  yet  no  thanks:  and  all  thro'  this  wild  wood 
And  all  this  morning  when  I  fondled  yon : 
Boon,  yes,  there  was  a  boon,  one  not  so  strange — 
How  had  I  wrong'd  yon?  surely  yon  are  wise. 
But  such  a  silence  is  more  wise  than  kind." 

And  Merlin  lock'd  his  band  In  hers  and  said: 
"O  did  you  never  lie  upon  the  shore, 
And  watch  the  curl'd  white  of  the  coming  wave 
Olass'd  in  the  slippery  sand  before  it  breaks? 
Ev'n  snch  a  wave,  but  not  so  pleasurable,     • 
Dark  in  the  glass  of  some  presageftil  mood. 
Had  I  for  three  days  seen,  ready  to  Call 
And  then  I  roee  and  fled  f^om  Arthur's  court        « 
To  l>reak  the  mood.    You  follow'd  me  unat^k'd  ; 
And  when  I  look'd,  and  saw  you  following  still, 
My  mind  involved  yourself  the  nearest  thing 
In  that  mind-mist;  for  shall  I  tell  you  truth? 
You  seem'd  that  wave  about  to  break  upon  me 
And  sweep  me  from  my  hold  upon  the  world, 
My  use  and  name  and  fame.    Your  pardon,  child. 
Yonr  pretty  sports  have  brighten 'd  all  again. 
And  ask  yonr  boon,  for  boon  I  owe  yon  thrice. 
Once  for  wrong  done  yon  by  confusion,  next 
For  thanks  it  seems  till  now  neglected,  last 
For  these  your  dainty  gambols:  wherefore  ask: 
And  take  this  boon  so  strange  and  not  so  strange." 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  monmftally : 
"  O  not  so  strange  as  my  long  asking  it. 
Nor  yet  so  strange  as  you  yourself  are  strange, 
Nor  half  so  strange  as  that  dark  mood  of  yours. 

1  ever  fear'd  you  were  not  wholly  mine; 

And  see,  yourself  have  own'd  you  did  me  wrong. 
The  people  call  you  prophet:  let  it  be: 
But  not  of  those  that  can  expound  themselves. 
Take  Vivien  for  expounder;  she  will  call 
That  three-days-long  presageftal  gloom  of  yours 
No  presage,  but  the  same  mistrustful  mood 
That  makes  you  seem  less  noble  than  yourselii 
Whenever  I  have  ask'd  this  very  boon. 
Now  ask'd  again ;  for  see  you  not,  dear  love. 
That  such  a  mood  as  that,  which  lately  gloom'd 


VIVIKN. 


168 


Yonr  AuKsy  when  700  mw  mo  foDowiiik'  yon, 
Most  make  bm  Iter  lUU  nxire  you  urr  iioi  mine. 
Mast  make  iM.7Mrn  tUII  moni  to  pmve  yon  mine, 
Aud  make  ma  wlak  atlll  more  to  learn  ihia  charm 
or  woTtn  pacaa  and  of  wavlDg  handa, 
A*  proof  of  trwt    O  Merlin,  t«arh  it  me. 
The  charm  ao  tanyht  will  charm  us  both  to  rest. 
For,  irrant  mo  aome  aliicht  power  upt>n  your  Tate, 
I,  feeling  that  yon  Atlt  me  worthy  tmat. 
Should  real  and  let  you  reet,  knowing  yon  mine, 
And  therefore  be  a«  great  aa  you  are  named, 
Not  muffled  round  with  MlAsh  rcticcuce. 
How  hard  yon  Unik  and  how  d^uyiugly  I 
O,  if  you  think  tbla  wickedueaa  In  me, 
That  I  ahould  prove  it  on  yon  nnawarea. 
To  make  yon  loa«  your  nee  aud  name  and  fWme. 
That  makea  me  moat  indignant ;  then  our  bond 
Had  beat  be  looeed  forever:  but  thiuk  or  not. 
By  Heaven  that  hears  I  tell  you  the  clean  truth, 
Aa  clean  aa  blood  of  babes,  aa  white  as  milk: 

0  Merlin,  may  this  earth,  if  ever  I, 

If  these  onwltty  wandering  wita  of  mine, 
Bv'n  in  the  Jumbled  rubbish  of  a  dreum. 
Have  tript  on  anch  conjectural  treachery- 
May  thin  hard  earth  cleave  to  the  Nadir  hell 
Down,  down,  and  close  again,  aud  nip  me  flat. 
If  I  be  such  a  traitreea.    Yield  my  boon. 
Till  which  I  scarce  can  yield  yon  all  I  am ; 
And  grant  my  re-reiterated  wish. 
The  great  pnxrf  of  yonr  love :  because  I  think, 
However  wise,  yon  hardly  know  roe  yet" 

And  Merlin  loosed  his  hand  fW>m  hers  and  said: 
"I  never  was  less  wise,  however  wi»e, 
Too  curious  Vivien,  tho'  yon  talk  of  trust. 
Than  when  I  told  you  first  of  such  a  charm. 
Yea,  if  yon  talk  of  tniBt  1  tell  yon  this. 
Too  much  I  trusted,  when  I  told  you  that, 
And  stirr'd  this  vice  in  you  which  rnin'd  man 
Thro'  woman  the  first  hour;  for  howsoe'er 
Tn  children  a  great  curiouHness  be  well, 
V  ho  have  to  learn  themselves  and  all  the  world. 
In  yon,  that  are  no  child,  for  still  I  find 
Your  face  is  practised,  when  I  spell  the  lines, 

1  call  it,— well,  I  will  not  call  it  vice : 

But  since  yon  name  yourself  the  summer  fly, 
I  well  could  wish  a  cobweb  for  the  gnat, . 
That  settles,  beaten  back,  and  beaten  back 
Settles,  till  one  could  yield  for  weariness: 
But  since  I  will  not  yield  to  give  yon  power 
Upon  my  life  and  nse  and  name  and  fame. 
Why  will  yon  never  ask  some  other  boon? 
Tea,  by  God'a  rood,  I  trusted  you  too  mach." 

And  Vivien,  like  the  tenderest-hearted  maid 
That  ever  bided  tryst  at  village  stile, 
Made  answer,  either  eyelid  wet  with  tears. 
"  Nay,  master,  be  not  wrathftii  with  your  maid ; 
Caress  her :  let  her  feel  herself  forgiven 
Who  feels  no  heart  to  ask  another  boon. 
I  think  yon  hardly  know  the  tender  rhyme 
Of  'tmst  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  alL' 
I  heard  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  sing  it  once. 
And  it  shall  answer  for  me.    Listen  to  it. 

•  In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  If  Love  be  onre. 
Faith  and  nufaith  can  ne'er  be  equal  powers: 
Unfidth  in  aught  is  want  of  fUth  in  alL 

'It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute. 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mnte, 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  alL 

•The  little  rill  within  the  lover's  Inte, 
Or  little  pitted  speck  in  gamer'd  fruit. 
That  rotting  inward  slowly  mooldera  all. 


'It  is  not  worth  the  keeping:  let  It  go: 
But  shall  itr  answer,  darling,  answer,  no. 
Aud  Uttst  me  not  ai  all  or  all  In  alL' 

0  master,  do  yoo  love  mj  t«nd«r  rhyme  T" 

And  Merlin  look'd  and  half  believed  her  tros, 
80  tender  was  her  voire,  mi  fair  her  face, 
:  80  sweetly  gleam'd  her  eyes  l>ehiud  her  lean 
,  Like  snuligbt  on  a  plain  behind  a  shower: 
I  And  yet  be  answerd  half  indiguanily : 

I     *'  Far  other  was  the  song  that  once  I  heard 
'  By  this  huge  oak,  sung  nearly  where  we  sit: 
I  For  here  we  met,  some  ten  or  twelve  of  us, 
I  To  chase  a  creature  that  was  current  then 
I  In  these  wild  wood^  the  hart  with  golden  homa. 
I  It  was  the  time  when  first  the  question  rose 
Alxmt  the  founding  of  a  Table  Round, 
That  wn!«  to  Ik-,  for  love  of  (iod  nud  men 
I  Aud  noble  deeds,  the  flower  uf  all  the  world. 
And  each  incited  each  to  noble  deeds. 
And  while  we  waited,  one,  the  youngest  of  us. 
We  could  not  keep  him  i<ileni,  out  lie  flash'd. 
And  into  such  n  song,  such  fire  for  fume. 
Such  trumpet-blowings  in  it,  coming  down 
To  such  a  stem  and  iron-clashing  close. 
That  when  he  stopt  we  long'd  to  burl  together. 
And  should  have  done  it;  but  the  beauteous  beast 
Scared  by  the  noise  upstarted  at  our  feet. 
And  like  a  silver  shadow  slipt  away 
Thro'  the  dim  land;  aud  all  day  long  we  rode 
Thro'  the  dim  land  against  the  rushing  wind. 
That  glorious  roundel  echoing  in  our  ears, 
And  chased  the  flashes  of  his  golden  horns 
Until  they  vanish'd  by  the  fairy  well 
That  laughs  at  iron— as  our  warriors  did— 
Where  children  cast  their  pins  aud  nails,  and  cry, 
"Laugh  little  well,"  but  touch  it  with  a  sword. 
It  buzzes  wildly  round  the  point;  and  there 
We  lost  him:  such  a  noble  song  was  that. 
But,  Vivien,  when  you  sang  me  that  sweet  rhyme, 

1  felt  as  tho'  you  knew  this  cursed  charm, 
Were  proving  it  on  me,  and  that  I  lay 

And  felt  them  slowly  ebbing,  name  and  fame." 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  monmfully; 
"O  mine  have  ebh'd  away  forevermore. 
And  all  thro'  following  you  to  this  wild  wood. 
Because  I  saw  you  sad,  to  comfort  you. 
Lo  now,  what  hearts  have  men !  they  never  mount 
As  high  as  woman  in  her  selfless  mood. 
And  touching  fome,  howe'er  you  scorn  my  song 
Take  one  verse  more— the  lady  speaks  it— this  i 

'My  name,  once  mine,  now  thine,  is  closeller  mine, 
For  fame,  could  fame  be  mine,  that  fame  were  thine, 
And  shame,  could  shame  be  thine,  that  shame  were 

mine. 
So  tmst  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 

"  Says  she  not  well  t  and  there  is  more— this  rhyme 
Is  like  the  fair  pearl  necklace  of  the  Qneen, 
That  burst  in  dancing,  and  the  pearls  were  spilt ; 
Some  lost,  some  stolen,  some  as  relics  kept 
But  nevermore  the  same  two  sister  pearls 
Ran  down  the  silken  thread  to  kiss  each  other 
On  ber  white  neck— so  is  it  with  this  riiyme; 
It  lives  dispersedly  in  many  handis 
And  every  minstrel  sings  it  differently: 
Yet  is  there  one  tme  line,  the  pearl  of  pearls: 
•Man  dreams  of  Fame  while  woman  wakes  to  love.' 
Tme :  Love,  tho'  Love  were  of  the  grossest,  carves 
A  portion  from  the  solid  present  eats 
And  nses,  careless  of  the  rest ;  but  Fame,  ' 
The  Fame  that  follows  death  is  nothing  to  ns; 
And  what  is  Fame  in  life  but  half-diffame. 
And  connterchanged  with  darkness  r  yon  yoorself 


16+ 


VIVIEN. 


Know  well  that  Envy  calls  you  Devil's  eon. 
And  since  you  seem  the  Master  of  all  Art, 
They  fain  would  make  you  Master  of  all  Vice." 

And  Merlin  lock  d  his  hand  in  hers  and  said, 
"I  once  was  looking  for  a  magic  weed, 
And  fonnd  a  fair  young  squire  who  sat  alone. 
Had  carved  himself  a  knightly  shield  of  wood, 
And  then  was  painting  on  it  fancied  arms, 
Azure,  an  Eagle  rising,  or,  the  Sun 
In  dexter  chief;  the  scroll  '  I  follow  fame.' 
And  wpeaking  not,  but  leaning  over  him, 
I  took  his  brush  and  blotted  out  the  bird, 
And  made  a  Gardener  putting  In  a  graft, 
With  this  for  motto,  'Rather  une  than  fame.' 
You  should  have  seen  him  blush :  but  afterwards 
He  made  a  stalwart  knight.    O  Vivien, 
For  you,  metbinks  you  think  you  love  me  well ; 
For  me,  I  love  you  somewhat:  rest:  and  Love 
Should  have  some  rest  and  pleasure  in  himself. 
Not  ever  be  too  curious  for  a  boon. 
Too  prurient  for  a  proof  against  the  grain 
Of  him  you  say  you  love:  but  Fame  with  men. 
Being  but  ampler  means  to  serve  mankind, 
Should  have  small  rent  or  pleasure  in  herself^ 
But  work  as  vassal  to  the  larger  love. 
That  dwarfs  the  petty  love  of  one  to  one. 
Use  gave  me  Fame  at  first,  and  Fame  again 
Increasing  gave  me  nse.    Lo,  there  my  boon ! 
What  other?  for  men  sought  to  prove  me  vile. 
Because  I  wish'd  to  give  them  greater  minds; 
And  then  did  Envy  call  nie  Devil's  son; 
The  sick  weak  beast  seeking  to  help  herself 
By  striking  at  her  better,  miss'd,  and  brought 
Her  own  claw  back,  and  wounded  her  own  heart 
Sweet  were  the  days  when  I  waa  all  unknown, 
But  when  my  name  waa  lifted  up,  the  storm 
Broke  on  the  mountain  and  I  cared  not  for  it. 
Kight  well  know  I  that  Fame  is  balf-disfarae. 
Yet  needs  must  work  my  work.    That  other  Came, 
To  one  at  least,  who  hath  not  children,  vagne, 
The  cackle  of  the  unborn  abont  the  grave, 
I  cared  not  for  it:  a  single  miety  star, 
Which  is  the  second  In  a  line  of  stars 
That  seem  a  sword  beneath  a  bell  of  three, 
I  never  gazed  upon  it  but  I  dreamt 
Of  some  vast  charm  concluded  In  that  star 
To  make  fame  nothing.    Wherefore,  if  I  fear, 
Oiving  you  power  upon  me  thro'  this  charm. 
That  you  might  play  me  falsely,  having  power, 
However  well  you  think  yon  love  me  now 
(As  sons  of  kings  loving  in  pupilage 
Have  tum'd  to  tyrants  when  they  came  to  power) 
I  rather  dread  the  loss  of  nse  than  fame; 
If  you— and  not  so  much  fh)m  wickedness. 
As  some  wild  turn  of  anger,  or  a  mood 
Of  overstraln'd  afl"ection,  it  may  he. 
To  keep  me  all  to  your  own  self,  or  else 
A  sudden  spurt  of  woman's  Jealousy, 
Should  try  this  charm  on  whom  yon  say  yon  love." 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  as  in  wrath : 
"  Have  I  not  swoni  ?    I  am  not  trusted.    Good  ! 
Well,  hide  it,  hide  it;  I  shall  And  It  out; 
And  being  fonnd  take  heed  of  Vivien. 
A  woman  and  not  trusted,  doubtless  I 
Might  feel  some  sudden  turn  of  anger  bom 
Of  your  misfaith  ;  and  your  fine  epithet 
Is  accurate  "too,  for  this  full  love  of  mine 
Without  the  full  heart  back  may  merit  well 
Your  term  of  overstrain'd.    So  used  as  I, 
My  daily  wonder  is,  I  love  at  all. 
And  as  to  woman's  jealonsy,  O  why  not  t 

0  to  wh^t  end,  except  a  jealous  one. 
And  one  to  make  me  jealous  if  I  love. 
Was  this  fair  charm  invented  by  yourself? 

1  well  believe  that  all  abont  this  world 
You  cage  a  buxom  captive  here  and  there. 


Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a  hollow  tower 
From  which  is  no  escape  forevermore." 

Then  the  great  Master  merrily  answer'd  her ; 
"Full  many  a  love  in  loving  youth  was  mine, 
I  needed  then  no  charm  to  keep  them  mine 
But  youth  and  love ;  and  that  full  heart  of  yours 
Whereof  you  prattle,  may  now  assure  you  mine : 
So  live  uncharra'd.    For  those  who  wrought  it  first. 
The  wrist  is  parted  from  the  hand  that  waved. 
The  feet  nnmortit-ed  from  their  ankle-bones 
Who  paced  it,  ages  back:  but  will  you  hear 
The  legend  as  in  guerdon  for  your  rhyme  » 

"  There  lived  a  King  in  the  most  Eastern  East, 
Less  old  than  I,  yet  older,  for  my  blood 
Hath  earnest  in  it  of  far  springs  to  be. 
.\  Uwny  pirate  auchor'd  in  his  port. 
Whose  bark  had  plunder'd  twenty  nameless  isles; 
And  passing  one,  at  the  high  peep  of  dawn. 
He  saw  two  cities  in  a  thousand  boats 
All  fighting  for  a  woman  on  the  sea. 
And  pushing  his  black  craft  among  them  all. 
He  lightly  scatter'd  theirs  and  brought  her  off. 
With  loss  of  half  his  people  arrow-slain ; 
A  maid  so  smooth,  so  white,  so  wonderftil. 
They  said  a  light  came  from  her  when  she  moved: 
And  since  the  pirate  would  not  yield  her  up, 
The  King  impaled  him  for  his  piracy; 
Then  made  her  (jueen :  but  those  isie-nnrtnr'd  eyi  s 
Waged  such  unwilling  tho'  successful  war 
On  all  the  youth,  they  sickeu'd ;  councils  thlnii'il. 
And  armies  waned,  for  magnet-like  she  drew 
The  rustiest  iron  of  old  fighters'  hearts ; 
And  boasts  themselves  would  wort-hip;  camels  knelt 
Unbiddcu,  and  the  brutes  of  mount-ain  back 
That  carried  kings  in  castles,  bow'd  black  knees 
Of  homage,  ringing  with  their  serpent  hands, 
To  make  her  smile,  her  golden  ankle-bells. 
What  wonder,  being  jealous,  that  he  sent 
His  boms  of  proclamation  out  thro'  all 
The  hundred  under-kingdoms  that  he  sway'd 
To  find  a  wizard  who  might  teach  the  King 
Some  charm,  which  being  wrought  upon  the  Queen 
Might  keep  her  all  bis  own :  to  snch  a  one 
He  promised  more  than  ever  king  has  given, 
A  leagne  of  monntain  full  of  golden  mines, 
A  province  with  a  hundred  miles  of  coast, 
A  palace  and  a  princess,  all  for  him : 
Bat  on  all  those  who  tried  and  fall'd,  the  King 
Pronounced  a  dismal  sentence,  meaning  by  it 
To  keep  the  list  low  and  pretenders  back. 
Or  like  a  king,  not  to  be  trifled  with— 
Their  heads  should  moulder  on  the  city  gates. 
And  many  tried  and  fail'd,  because  the  charm 
Of  nature  In  her  overbore  their  own : 
And  many  a  wizard  brow  bleach 'd  on  the  walls : 
And  many  weeks  a  troop  of  carrion  crows 
Hang  like  a  cloud  above  the  gateway  towers." 

And  Vivien,  breaking  in  upon  him,  said : 
"  I  sit  and  gather  honey ;  yet,  methinks. 
Your  tongue  has  tript  a  little:  ask  yourself 
The  lady  never  made  untcWng  war 
With  those  fine  eyes:  she  had  her  pleasure  in  it, 
.\nd  made  her  good  man  Jealous  with  good  cause. 
And  lived  there  neither  dame  nor  damsel  then 
Wroth  at  a  lover's  loss?  were  all  as  tame, 
I  mean,  as  noble,  as  their  Queen  was  fair? 
Not  one  to  flirt  a  venom  at  her  eyes. 
Or  pinch  a  murderous  dust  into  her  drink. 
Or  make  bet  paler  with  a  poison'd  rose? 
Well,  those  were  not  our  days;  but  did  they  find 
A  wizard  ?    Tell  me,  was  he  like  to  thee  ?" 

She  ceased,  and  made  her  lithe  arm  round  his  neck 
Tighten,  and  then  drew  back,  and  let  her  eyes 
Speak  for  her,  glowing  on  him,  like  a  bride's 
On  her  new  lord,  her  own,  the  first  of  men. 


VIVIEN. 


'  And  pndilac  U*  Mark  rraft  amonK  tham  all, 
>1«  Uichtly  icaWar'd  tbein  and  bma^t  bar  off. 
With  loaa  of  half  hli  people  arrow-elaln." 


He  answer'd  laughing,  "Nay,  not  like  to4hie. 
At  last  they  fonnd— his  foragers  for  charms — 
A  little  glasfiy-headed  hairless  man, 
Who  lived  alone  in  a  great  wild  on  grass ; 
Read  but  one  book,  and  ever  reading  grew 
So  grated  down  and  flled  away  with  thought. 
So  lean  hla  eyes  were  monstrous «  while  the  skin 
Clang  bnt  to  crate  and  basket,  ribs  and  spine. 
And  since  he  kept  his  mind  on  one  sole  aim, 
Nor  ever  touch 'd  fierce  wine,  nor  tasted  flesh, 
Nor  own'd  a  sensual  wish,  to  him  the  wall 
That  sunders  ghosts  and  shadow-casting  men 
Became  a  crystal,  and  he  saw  them  thro'  it, 
And  heard  their  voices  talk  behind  th«  wall. 
And  learnt  their  elemental  secrets,  powers 
And  forces;  often  o'er  the  sun's  bright  eye 
Drew  the  vast  eyelid  of  an  inky  clond. 
And  lash'd  it  at  the  base  with  slanting  storm; 
Or  in  the  noon  of  mist  and  driving  rain. 
When  the  lake  wh||en'd  and  the  pine-wood  roar'd. 
And  the  caim'd  mountain  waa  a  shadow,  snnn'd 


The  world  to  peace  ngnin :  here  was  the  man. 
And  so  by  force  they  dragg'd  him  to  the  King. 
And  then  he  Uught  the  King  to  charm  the  Queen 
In  such  wise,  that  no  man  could  see  her  more. 
Nor  saw  she  save  the  King,  who  wrought  the  charm. 
Coming  and  going,  and  she  lay  as  dead. 
And  lost  all  use  of  life :  bnt  when  the  King 
Made  proffer  of  the  league  of  golden  mines, 
The  province  with  a  hundred  miles  of  coast. 
The  palace  and  the  prinrcH.«,  th."»t  old  man 
Went  back  to  his  old  wild,  and  lived  on  grass. 
And  vauish'd,  and  his  book  came  down  to  roe." 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  saucily : 
"You  have  the  book:  the  charm  is  written  in  It: 
Good :  take  my  counsel :  let  me  know  it  at  once : 
For  keep  it  like  a  puzzle  chest  in  chest, 
With  each  chest  lock'd  and  padlock'd  thirty-fold. 
And  whelm  all  this  benenth  as  vast  a  mound 
As  after  ftirious  battle  turfs  the  slain 
On  some  wild  ^own  above  the  windy  de«p, 


166 


VIVIEN. 


I  yet  8hoald  strike  npun  a  sadden  means 
To  dig,  pick,  open,  find  and  read  the  cliarm : 
Then,  if  I  tried  it,  who  should  blame  me  then  ?" 

And  smiling  as  a  Master  smiles  at  one 
That  is  not  of  his  school,  nor  any  school 
But  that  where  blind  and  naked  Ignorance 
Delivers  brawling  judgments,  unai^hamed. 
On  all  things  all  day  long,  he  answered  her : 

"  VfM  read  the  book,  my  pretty  Vivien ! 
O  ay,  it  is  but  twenty  puges  long. 
But  every  page  having  an  ample  marge, 
An  every  marge  enclosing  in  the  midst 
A  square  of  text  that  looks  a  little  blot. 
The  text  no  larger  than  the  limbs  of  fleas ; 
And  every  square  of  text  an  awftal  charm. 
Writ  in  a  language  that  has  long  gone  by. 
So  long,  that  mountains  have  arisen  since 
With  cities  on  their  flunks — you  read  the  bookl 
And  every  margin  scribbled,  crost  and  cramm'd 
With  comment,  densest  condensation,  hard 
To  mind  and  eye ;  but  the  long  sleepless  nights 
Of  my  long  life  have  made  it  easy  to  me. 
And  none  can  read  the  text,  not  even  I ; 
And  none  can  read  the  comment  but  myself; 
And  in  the  comment  did  I  And  the  charm. 
O,  the  results  are  simple;  a  mere  child 
Might  use  it  to  the  l^arm  of  any  one, 
And  never  could  undo  it:  ai'k  no  more: 
For  tho'  you  should  not  prove  it  upon  me, 
But  keep  that  oath  you  swore,  you  might,  perchance, 
Assay  it  on  some  one  of  the  Table  Round, 
And  all  because  you  dream  they  babble  of  you." 

And  Vivien,  (downing  In  true  anger,  said : 
"What  dare  the  full-fed  liars  say  of  me? 
They  ride  abroad  redressing  human  wrongs ! 
They  sit  with  knife  In  meat  and  wine  in  horn. 
They  bound  to  holy  vows  of  chastity ! 
Were  I  not  woman,  I  could  tell  a  tale. 
But  you  are  man,  yon  well  can  understand 
The  shame  that  cannot  be  explaln'd  for  shame. 
Mot  cue  of  all  the  drove  ahoiUd  touch  me :  swine  {" 

Then  answer'd  Merlin  careless  of  her  words, 
"Yon  breathe  but  accusation  vast  and  vngne. 
Spleen-bom,  I  think,  and  proofless.    If  you  know, 
Set  up  the  charge  yon  know,  to  stand  or  Cdl !" 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  frowning  wrathftally : 
"  O  ay,  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Valence,  him 
Whose  kinsman  left  him  watcher  o'er  his  wife 
And  two  fair  babes,  and  went  to  distant  lands ; 
Was  one  year  gone,  and  on  returning  found 
Not  two  but  three :  there  lay  the  reckling,  one 
But  one  hour  old  !    What  said  the  happy  slret 
A  seven  months'  babe  had  been  a  trner  gift. 
Those  twelve  sweet  moons  confkised  his  fatherhood !" 

Then  answer'd  Merlin :  "  Nay,  I  know  the  tale. 
Sir  Valence  wedded  with  an  outland  dame: 
Some  cause  had  kept  him  sunder'd  from  his  wife: 
One  child  they  had:  it  lived  with  her:  she  died: 
His  kinsman  travelling  on  his  own  affair 
Was  charged  by  Valence  to  bring  home  the  child. 
He  brought,  not  found  it  therefore :  take  the  truth." 

"O  ay,"  said  Vivien,  "overtme  a  tale. 
What  say  ye  then  to  sweet  Sir  Sagramore, 
That  ardent  man  ?  '  to  pluck  the  flower  in  season ;' 
So  says  the  song,  '  I  trow  it  is  no  treason.' 
O  Msister,  shall  we  call  him  overquick 
To  crop  his  own  sweet  rose  before  the  hourT" 

And  Merlin  answer'd:  "Overquick  are  you 
To  catch  a  lothly  plume  faH'n  from  the  wing 
Of  that  foul  bird  of  rapine  whose  whole  prey 


Is  man's  good  name:  he  never  wrong'd  his  bride. 
I  know  the  tale.    An  angry  gust  of  wind 
Puff'd  out  his  torch  among  the  myriad-room'd 
And  many-corridor'd  complexities 
Of  Arthur's  palace :  then  he  found  a  door 
And  darkling  felt  the  sculptured  ornament 
That  wreathen  round  it  made  it  seem  his  own ; 
And  wearied  out  made  for  the  couch  and  slept, 
A  stainless  man  beside  a  stainless  maid ; 
And  either  slept,  nor  knew  of  other  there ; 
Till  the  high  dawn  piercing  the  royal  rose 
In  Arthur's  casement  glimmer'd  chastely  down. 
Blushing  upon  them  blushing,  and  at  once 
He  rose  without  a  word  and  parted  from  her: 
But  when  the  thing  was  blazed  about  the  court. 
The  brute  world  howling  forced  them  into  bonds, 
And  as  it  chanced  they  are  happy,  being  pure." 

"  O  ay,"  said  V^ivien,  "  that  were  likely  toa 
What  say  ye  then  to  fair  Sir  Percivale 
And  of  the  horrid  foulness  that  he  wrought. 
The  saintly  youth,  the  spotless  lamb  of  Christ, 
Or  some  black  wether  of  St.  Satan's  fold. 
What,  in  the  precincts  of  the  chapel-yard. 
Among  the  knightly  brasses  of  the  graves, 
And  by  the  cold  Hie  Jacets  of  the  dead !" 

And  Merlin  answer'd,  careless  of  her  charge : 
"A  sober  man  is  Percivale  and  pure; 
But  once  in  life  was  flnster'd  with  new  wine; 
Then  paced  for  coolness  in  the  chapel-yard. 
Where  one  of  Satan's  shepherdesses  caught 
And  meant  to  stamp  him  with  her  master's  mark ; 
And  that  he  sinu'd,  is  not  believable ; 
For,  look  upon  his  face  !— but  If  he  slnn'd, 
The  sin  that  practice  bums  into  the  blood, 
And  not  the  one  dark  hour  which  brings  remorse, 
Will  brand  us,  after,  of  whose  fold  we  be: 
Or  else  were  he,  the  holy  king,  whose  hymns 
Are  chanted  in  the  minster,  worse  than  all. 
Bot  is  your  spleen  fh>th'd  oat,  or  have  ye  more  f" 

And  Vlyien  answer'd  frowning  yet  in  wrath : 
"  O  ay ;  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Lancelot,  friend  T 
Traitor  or  traeT  that  commerce  with  the  Queen, 
I  ask  yon,  is  it  clamor'd  by  the  child. 
Or  wbisper'd  in  the  corner?  do  yon  know  itf 

To  which  he  answer'd  sadly:  "Yea,  I  know  it 
Sir  Lancelot  weut  ambassador,  at  flrst. 
To  fetch  her,  and  she  took  him  for  the  King ; 
So  flxt  her  fancy  on  him:  let  him  he. 
Bat  have  you  no  one  word  of  loyal  praise 
For  Arthur,  blameless  King  and  stainless  man  f" 

She  Answer'd  with  a  low  and  chnckling  langh : 
"  Him  7"  is  be  man  at  all,  who  knows  and  winks  ? 
Sees  what  bis  fair  bride  is  and  does,  and  winlcs  f 
By  which  the  good  king  means  to  blind  himself^ 
And  blinds  himself  and  all  the  Table  Round 
To  all  the  foulness  that  they  work.    Myself 
Could  call  him  (were  it  not  for  womanhood) 
The  pretty,  popular  name  such  manhood  earns, 
Could  call  him  the  main  cause  of  all  their  crime ; 
Yea,  were  he  not  crown'd  king,  coward,  and  fooL" 

Then  Merlin  to  his  own  heart,  loathing,  said : 
"O  true  and  tender  I  O  my  liege  and  king'. 
O  selfless  man  and  stainless  gentleman, 
Who  wouldst  against  thine  own  eye-witness  fain 
Have  all  men  true  and  leal,  all  women  pure : 
How,  in  the  mouths  of  base  interpreters, 
From  over-flneness  not  intelligible 
To  things  with  every  sense  as  false  and  fonl 
As  the  poached  filth  that  floo^f  the  middle  street. 
Is  thy  white  blamelessness  accoimted  blame  I" 


VIVIEN. 


107 


Bat  Vivten  detnlag  Merlin  ov^rborns 
By  luauuoa,  raoomnMBoad,  and  let  lior  toBKua 
Rag*  like  a  lira  amoiig  the  nobloMt  uamee, 
Polluting,  and  ImpntlnK  her  wliulc  self, 
Drfninliii;  aud  dvfhclng,  till  #\w  Iffl 
Not  «veu  LanoeJot  brave,  uor  Ualabad  clean. 

Her  worda  had  taaqe  other  than  ahe  wlll'd. 
Ue  dranr'd  hia  eyebrow  boabea  down,  and  made 
A  anowy  penthonae  for  hIa  hollow  eyea, 
And  mntter'd  In  liimwir,  "  Tell  hrr  Uie  charm  t 
So,  If  the  had  li,  would  nhe  rail  uii  mo 
To  anare  the  uexl,  and  if  i»be  have  it  not, 
80  will  ahe  rail.    What  did  the  wanu>n  aay  r 
'Not  mount  as  high ;'  we  scarce  can  sink  as  low; 
For  men  at  mo«i  difTer  aa  Heaven  and  earth, 
But  women,  worst  and  b«*8t,  aa  Heaven  and  Hell. 
I  know  the  Tabic  Konnd,  my  fHenda  of  old  ; 
All  brnve.  and  ninny  generous,  and  some  cbavte. 
I  think  i<hc  cloakrt  the  wounds  of  loss  with  lies ; 
I  do  believe  8he  tempted  them  and  (hil'd, 
She  Is  so  bitter:  for  lino  plots  mny  fail, 
Tho'  harlots  paint  their  talk  as  well  m  fhce 
With  colors  of  the  heart  that  are  not  theirs. 
I  will  not  let  her  know:  nine  tithes  of  times 
Face-flatterers  and  backbiters  are  the  same. 
And  they,  tweet  soni,  that  most  Impute  a  crime 
Are  proneet  to  it,  and  impute  themselves, 
Wanting  the  mental  rage ;  or  low  desire 
Not  to  feel  lowest  makes  them  level  all : 
Yea,  they  would  pare  the  mountain  to  the  plain. 
To  leave  an  equal  baseness ;  and  in  this 
Are  harlots  like  the  crowd,  that  if  they  And 
Some  stain  or  blemish  In  a  name  of  note, 
Not  grieving  that  their  greatest  are  so  small. 
Inflate  themselves  with  some  Insane  delight. 
And  Judge  all  nature  ttom  her  feet  of  clay. 
Without  the  will  to  lift  their  eyes,  and  see 
Her  godlike  head  crown'd  with  spiritual  fire. 
And  touching  other  worlds.    I  am  weary  of  her." 

He  spoke  In  words  part  heard,  in  whispers  part, 
Half-euflbcated  in  the  hoary  fell 
And  many-winter'd  fleece  of  throat  and  chin. 
But  Vivien,  gathering  somewhat  of  his  mood. 
And  hearing  "harlot"  mutter'd  twice  or  thnce. 
Leapt  fh>m  her  session  on  his  lap,  and  stood 
Stiff  as  a  viper  frozen :  loathsome  sight, 
How  from  the  rosy  lips  of  life  and  love, 
Flash'd  the  bare-giinuing  skeleton  of  death  ! 
White  was  her  cheek ;  sharp  breaths  of  anger  pnff'd 
Her  fairy  nostril  out:  her  baud  half-clench 'd 
Went  faltering  sideways  downward  to  her  belt, 
And  feeling;  had  she  found  a  dagger  there 
(For  In  a  wink  the  false  love  tarns  to  hate) 
She  would  have  stabb'd  him ;  but  she  found  it  not : 
His  eye  was  calm,  and  suddenly  she  took 
To  bitter  weeping  like  a  l>eaten  child, 
A  long,  long  weeping,  not  consolable. 
Then  her  false  voice  made  way  broken  with  sobs. 

"O  crueller  than  was  ever  told  In  tale. 
Or  sung  in  song  I  O  vainly  lavish'd  love ! 

0  cmei,  there  was  nothing  wild  or  strange, 
Or  seeming  shameful,  for  what  shame  in  love. 
So  love  be  true,  and  not  as  yours  is — nothing 
Pool  Vivien  had  not  done  to  win  his  trust 
Who  call'd  her  what  he  call'd  her— all  her  crime. 
All— all— the  wish  to  prove  him  wholly  hers." 

She  mused  a  little,  and  then  clapt  her  hands 
Together  with  a  wailing  shriek,  and  said: 
'*  Stabb'd  through  the  heart's  affections  to  the  heart  I 
Seetb'd  like  the  kid  in  its  own  mother's  milk! 
Kiild  with  a  word  worse  than  a  life  of  blows  I 

1  thoucht  that  he  was  gentle,  being  great: 

0  God.  that  I  had  loved  a  smaller  man ! 

1  ahotiid  have  found  in  him  a  greater  heart. 


O,  I,  that  flattering  my  traa  paaatos,  aaw 

The  kulghta,  the  court,  the  king,  dark  in  yoar  light, 

Who  loved  to  make  men  darker  than  they  are, 

Uecanae  of  that  high  pleaaore  wbteta  I  had 

To  seat  you  sole  u|>ou  my  pedestal 

Of  wortbl|>— I  am  auawer'd,  and  hencefhrth 

The  ooarae  of  life  that  seem'd  so  flitwcry  to  ma 

With  you  for  guide  aud  master,  only  you, 

Uecomea  the  aes- cliff  pathway  broken  ahort. 

And  ending  in  a  ruin— nothing  left. 

Hut  into  some  low  cave  to  crawl,  and  there, 

If  the  wolf  spare  t\u;  weep  my  life  away, 

Kill'd  with  unuiterul)lo  unkludlluess." 

She  paused,  she  tum'd  away,  she  hung  her  head. 
The  snake  of  gold  slid  fhim  her  hair,  the  braid 
Slipt  and  uncoil'd  Itself;  she  wept  af^sb. 
And  the  dark  wood  grew  darker  toward  the  storm 
In  silence,  while  his  anger  slowly  died 
Within  him,  till  ho  let  bis  wisdom  go 
For  ease  of  heart,  and  half  believed  her  true : 
Call'd  her  to  sboltcr  in  the  hollow  oak, 
"Come  ttom  tho  storm,"  and  having  uo  reply, 
Qazed  at  the  heaving  shoulder,  and  the  face 
Uand-h'.dden,  as  for  utmost  grief  or  shame ; 
Then  thrice  essay'd  by  tcudcrest-touchlng  terms 
To  sleek  her  ruffled  peace  of  mind,  in  vain. 
At  last  she  let  herself  be  couquer'd  by  him, 
And  as  the  cageling  newly  flown  returns, 
The  seem ing-i toured  simple-heitrtud  thing 
Came  to  her  old  perch  back,  and  settled  there. 
There  while  she  sat,  half-falling  from  his  knees. 
Half-nestled  at  bis  heart,  aud  since  he  saw 
The  clow  tear  creep  from  her  closed  eyelid  yet. 
About  her,  more  in  kindness  than  In  love. 
The  gentle  wizard  cast  a  shielding  arm. 
But  she  dislink'd  herself  at  once  and  rose, 
Her  arms  upon  her  breast  across,  and  stood 
A  virtuous  gentlewoman  deeply  wrong'd, 
Upright  and  flnsh'd  before  him:  then  she  said: 

"There  must  be  now  no  passages  of  love 
Betwixt  us  twain  henceforward  evermore. 
Since,  If  I  be  what  I  am  grossly  call'd. 
What  should  be  granted  which  your  own  gross  heart 
Would  reckon  worth  the  taking?    I  will  go. 
In  truth,  but  one  thing  now— better  have  died 
Thrice  than  have  ask'd  it  once— could  make  me  stay- 
That  proof  of  trust — so  often  asked  In  valu ! 
How  Justly,  after  that  vile  term  of  yours, 
I  And  with  grief  I    I  might  believe  you  then, 
Who  knows?  once  more.    O,  what  was  once  to  me 
Mere  matter  of  the  fancy,  now  has  grown 
The  vast  necessity  of  heart  and  life. 
Fareweil:  think  kindly  of  me,  for  I  fear 
My  fate  or  fault,  omitting  gayer  youth 
For  one  so  old,  must  lie  to  love  you  still. 
But  ere  I  leave  yon  let  me  swear  once  more 
That  if  I  schemed  against  your  peace  in  this. 
May  yon  just  heaven,  that  darkens  o'er  me,  send 
One  flash,  that,  missing  all  things  else,  may  make 
My  scheming  brain  a  cinder,  if  I  lie." 

Scarce  had  she  ceased,  when  out  of  heaven  a  holt 
(For  now  the  storm  was  close  above  them)  struck, 
Furrowing  a  giant  oak,  aud  Javellning 
With  darted  spikee  aud  splinters  of  the  wood 
The  dark  earth  round.    He  raised  bis  eyes  and  saw 
The  tree  that  shone  white-listed  thro'  the  gloom. 
But  Vivien,  fearing  heaven  had  heard  her  oath. 
And  dazzled  by  nie  livid-flickering  fork. 
And  denfen'd  with  the  stammering  cracks  and  claps 
That  follow'd,  flying  back  and  crying  out, 
"O  Merlin,  tho'  you  do  not  love  me,  save. 
Yet  save  me !"  clang  to  him  and  hugg'd  him  close : 
And  call'd  him  dear  protector  In  her  fright, 
Nor  yet  forgot  her  practice  in  her  fright. 
Bat  wrought  upon  bis  mood  and  hugg'd  him  close 


168 


ELAINE. 


The  pale  blood  of  the  wizard  at  her  touch 

Took  gayer  colors,  like  au  opal  warm'd. 

She  blamed  herself  for  telling  hearsay  tales: 

She  shook  from  fear,  and  for  her  fault  she  M-ept 

Of  petulancy ;  she  call'd  him  lord  and  liege, 

Her  seer,  her  bard,  her  silver  star  of  eve. 

Her  God,  her  Merlin,  the  one  passionate  love 

Of  her  whole  life ;  aud  ever  overhead 

Bellow'd  the  tempest,  aud  the  rotteu  branch 

Suapt  in  the  rushing  of  the  river-rain 

Above  them ;  aud  in  change  of  glare  and  gloom 

Her  eyes  and  neck  glittering  went  and  came; 

Till  now  the  storm,  its  burst  of  passion  spent. 

Moaning  and  calling  out  of  other  lands, 

Had  left  the  ravaged  woodland  yet  once  more 

To  peace ;  and  what  should  not  have  been  had  been. 

For  Merlin,  overtalk'd  and  overworn, 

Had  yielded,  told  ber  all  the  charm,  aud  elept. 

Then,  in  one  moment,  she  put  forth  the  cbarm 
Of  woven  paces  aud  of  waving  bands. 
And  in  the  hollow  oak  be  lay  as  dead, 
Aud  lost  to  life  aud  use  and  name  aud  fame. 

Then  crying  "I  have  made  his  glory  mine," 
And  shrieking  oat  "  O  fool !"  the  harlot  leapt 
Adown  the  forest,  and  the  thicket  closed 
Behtud  her,  aud  the  forest  ecbu'd  "  foul." 


ELAINE. 

Elainr  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable, 
Elaine,  the  Illy  maid  of  Astolat, 
High  iu  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to  the  east 
Guarded  the  sacred  shield  of  Lancelot; 
Whicb  first  she  placed  where  morning's  earliest  ray 
Might  strike  It,  and  awake  her  with  the  gleam ; 
Then  fearing  rust  or  soilure,  fashiou'd  for  it 
A  case  of  silk,  and  braided  thereupon 
All  the  devices  blazon'd  on  the  shield 
Iu  their  own  tlnct,  and  added,  of  her  wit, 
A  l>order  fantasy  of  branch  and  flower. 
And  yellow-throated  nestling  in  the  nesU 
Nor  rested  thus  content,  but  day  by  day 
Leaving  her  household  and  goo<l  father  climb'd 
That  eastern  tower,  and  entering  barr'd  her  door, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  read  the  naked  shield, 
Now  gness'd  a  hidden  meaning  iu  his  arms. 
Now  made  a  pretty  history  to  herself 
Of  every  dint  a  sword  had  beaten  in  it. 
And  every  scratch  a  lance  had  made  upon  it. 
Conjecturing  when  and  where :  this  cut  is  tnah ; 
That  ten  years  back :  this  dealt  him  at  Caerlyle ; 
That  at  Caerleon .  this  at  Camelot  : 
And  ah,  God's  mercy,  what  a  stroke  was  there! 
And  here  a  thrust  that  might  have  klll'd,  bnt  God 
Broke  the  strong  lance,  and  roll'd  his  enemy  down. 
And  saved  him:  so  she  lived  iu  fantasy. 

How  came  the  lily  maid  by  that  good  shield 
Of  Lancelot,  she  that  knew  not  ev'n  his  name? 
He  left  it  with  her,  when  he  rode  to  tilt 
For  the  great  diamond  in  the  diamond  jousts. 
Which  Arthur  had  ordain'd,  and  by  that  name 
Had  named  them,  since  a  diamond  was  the  prize. 

For  Arthur  when  none  knew  from  whence  he  came, 
Long  ere  the  people  chose  him  for  their  king, 
Roving  the  trackless  realms  of  Lyonnesse, 
Had  found  a  glen,  gray  boulder  aud  black  tarn. 
A  horror  lived  about  the  tarn,  and  clave 
Like  its  own  mists  to  all  the  mountain  side: 
For  here  two  brothers,  one  a  king,  had  met 
And  fought  together:  bnt  their  names  were  lost 
And  each  had  slain  his  brother  at  a  blow. 
And  down  they  fell  aud  made  the  glen  abhorr'd: 


And  there  they  lay  till  all  their  bones  were  bleached, 

And  lichen'd  into  color  with  the  crags: 

And  he  that  once  was  king  had  on  a  crown 

Of  diamonds,  one  in  front,  and  four  aside. 

And  Arthur  came,  and  laboring  up  the  pass 

All  in  a  misty  moonshine,  unawares 

Had  trodden  that  crown'd  skeleton,  aud  the  skull 

Brake  from  the  nape,  and  from  the  skull  the  crown 

Koll'd  into  light,  aud  turning  on  its  rims 

Fled  like  a  glittering  rivulet  to  the  taru : 

Aud  down  the  shingly  scaur  he  plunged,  and  caught, 

And  set  it  on  his  head,  and  in  bis  heart 

Heard  murmurs,  "  Lo,  thou  likewise  shalt  be  king." 

Thereafter,  when  a  king,  he  had  the  gems 
Pluck 'd   from  the  crown,  and  show'd  them  to  his 

knights. 
Saying  "These  jewels,  whereupon  I  chanced 
Divinely,  are  the  kingdom's,  not  the  king's — 
For  public  use:  henceforward  let  there  be. 
Once  every  year,  a  Joust  for  one  of  these : 
For  so  by  nine  years'  proof  we  needs  must  learn 
Which  is  our  mightiest,  and  ourselves  shall  grow 
In  use  of  arms  and  manhood,  till  we  drive 
The  Heathen,  who,  some  say,  shall  rule  the  land 
Hereafter,  which  God  hinder."    Thus  he  spoke : 
And  eight  years  past,  eight  jousts  had  been,  and  still 
Had  Luicelot  won  Uie  diamond  of  the  year, 
With  pnrpose  to  present  them  to  the  Queen, 
When  all  were  won :  but  meaning  all  at  once 
To  snare  her  royal  fancy  with  a  boon 
Worth  half  ber  realm,  had  never  spoken  word. 

Now  for  the  central  diamond  and  the  last 
Aud  largest,  Arthur,  holding  then  bis  court 
Hard  on  the  river  nigh  the  place  whicb  now 
Is  this  world's  bogest,  let  proclaim  a  Jonst 
At  Camelot,  and  when  the  time  drew  nigh 
Spake  (for  she  had  1)een  sick)  to  Guinevere, 
"  Are  yon  so  sick,  my  Qneen,  you  cannot  move 
To  these  fair  Jonsts  ?"    "  Yea,  lord,"  she  said,  "  yon 

know  ft." 
"  Then  will  you  nilss,"  he  answer'd  "  the  great  deeds 
Of  Lancelot,  and  his  prowess  iu  the  lists, 
A  sigbt  yon  love  to  look  on.".  And  the  Queen 
LlttioA  ber  eyes,  and  they  dwelt  languidly 
On  Lancelot,  where  he  stood  beside  the  King. 
He  thinking  that  be  read  ber  meaning  there, 
"  Stay  with  me,  I  am  sick ;  my  love  is  more 
Than  many  diamonds,"  yielded,  and  a  heart. 
Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen 
(However  much  be  yeam'd  to  make  complete 
The  tale  of  diamonds  for  bis  destined  boon) 
Urged  him  to  speak  against  the  tmth,  and  say 
"  Sir  King,  mine  ancient  wound  is  hardly  whole. 
And  lets  me  fh)m  the  saddle :"  and  the  King 
Glanced  first  at  him,  then  ber,  and  went  his  way. 
No  sooner  gone  than  suddenly  she  began: 

"To  blame,  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot,  mncb  to  blame 
Why  go  you  not  to  these  Cair  jousts?  the  knights 
Are  half  of  them  our  enemies,  and  the  crowd 
Will  murmur,  lo  the  shameless  ones,  who  take 
Their  pastime  now  the  trustful  king  is  gone !" 
Then  Lancelot,  vext  at  having  lied  in  vain : 
"  Are  yon  so  wise  ?  you  were  not  once  so  wise. 
My  Qneen,  that  summer,  when  you  loved  me  first. 
Then  of  the  crowd  yon  took  no  more  account 
Than  of  the  myriad  cricket  of  the  mead. 
When  its  own  voice  clings  to  each  blade  of  grass. 
And  every  voice  is  nothing.    As  to  Icnigbts, 
Them  surely  can  I  silence  with  all  ease. 
Bnt  now  my  loyal  worship  is  allow'd 
Of  all  men :  many  a  bard,  without  offence, 
Has  link'd  our  names  together  in  his  lay, 
Lancelot,  the  fiower  of  bravery,  Guinevere, 
The  pearl  of  beauty :  and  our  knights  at  feast 
Have  pledged  us  in  this  union,  while  the  King 
Would  listen  smiling.    How  then  ?  is  there  more  f 


ELAINE. 


Iffi) 


Hu  Arthur  vpokcn  ttnght  t  or  would  yonraeir. 
Now  weary  of  my  wrvic«  and  devoir, 
Hancaforth  b«  truer  tu  yuur  fuulUoMi  lordP 

She  broke  Into  a  Hitle  tcomftil  laogh. 
"  Arthur,  my  lord,  Arthur,  the  fanltleas  Rlnff, 
Tbnt  pnMluunto  iN-rrm'tloii,  my  ^uod  lord— 
llui  who  can  unze  upon  the  Sun  In  heaven  f 
Ue  never  epake  word  of  reproach  to  me, 
lie  never  luul  a  gllropee  or  mine  untruth, 
Ue  carea  not  for  me:  only  here  ttK<iay 
There  fleam'd  a  vagoe  aunpicion  in  hta  eyee: 
Rome  meddling  roftne  h«»  t^unper'd  with  him— «1m 
Rapt  in  thin  rnticy  of  hia  Table  Konnd, 
And  RwenriuK  men  to  vows  imptmihle. 
To  make  them  like  htninclf:  hut,  rrioiul,  to  me 
He  Is  all  fkult  who  hath  no  fault  nt  nil : 
For  who  loves  me  mii8t  have  a  touch  of  earth ; 
The  low  enn  makes  the  color :  I  am  youre, 
Not  Arthur's,  as  you  know,  save  by  the  bond, 
And  therefore  hear  my  words :  go  to  the  Jonets : 
The  Uny-trumpetiDg  gnat  can  break  our  dream 
When  sweetest;  and  the  vermin  voices  here 
May  ban  so  load— we  scorn  them,  but  they  sting." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of  knights, 
"  And  with  what  face,  after  my  pretext  made. 
Shall  I  appear,  O  Qaeen,  at  Camelut,  I 
Before  a  king  who  honors  his  own  word. 
As  if  it  were  his  Ood'sf** 

"Yea,"  said  the  Quccu, 
"  A  moral  child  without  the  crnft  to  rule, 
EIm  had  be  not  lost  me:  but  listen  to  me. 
If  I  must  And  yon  wit:  we  hear  it  said 
That  men  go  down  before  your  spear  at  a  touch 
But  knowing  yon  arc  Lancelot ;  your  great  name, 
This  conquers:  hide  it  therefore;  go  unknown: 
Win!  by  this  kiss  yon  will:  and  our  true  king 
Will  then  allow  your  pretext,  O  my  knight. 
As  all  for  glory;  for  to  speak  him  true. 
You  know  right  well,  how  meek  so  e'er  he  seem. 
No  keener  hunter  after  glory  breathes. 
He  loves  it  in  his  knights  more  than  himself: 
They  prove  to  him  his  work :  win  and  return." 

Then  got  Sir  Lancelot  suddenly  to  horse. 
Wroth  at  himself:  not  wrilling  to  be  known. 
He  left  the  barren-beaten  thoroughfare, 
Choee  the  green  path  that  show'd  the  rarer  foot, 
And  there  among  the  solitary  downs, 
Ptill  often  lost  in  fancy,  lost  his  way ; 
Till  as  be  traced  a  faintly-shadow'd  track. 
That  all  in  loops  and  links  among  the  dales 
Kan  to  the  Castle  of  Astolat,  he  saw 
Pired  from  the  west,  far  on  a  hill,  the  towers. 
Thither  he  made  and  wound  the  gateway  horn. 
Then  came  an  old,  dumb,  myriad-wrinkled  man ; 
Who  let  him  into  lodging,  and  disarm 'd. 
And  Lancelot  marvell'd  at  the  wordless  man : 
And  issuing  found  the  Lord  of  Astolat 
With  two  strong  sons.  Sir  Torre  and  Sir  Lavaioe, 
Moving  to  meet  him  in  the  castle  tonrt ; 
And  close  behind  them  stept  the  lily  maid 
Elaine,  his  daughter:  mother  of  the  house 
There  was  not :  some  light  jest  among  them  rose 
With  laughter  dying  down  as  the  great  knight 
Approach'd  them :  then  the  Lord  of  Astolat, 
"Whence  comest  thou,  my  guest,  and  by  what  name 
Livest  between  the  lipst  for  by  thy  stale 
And  presence  I  might  guess  thee  chief  of  those. 
After  the  king,  who  eat  in  Arthur's  halls. 
Him  have  1  seen :  the  rest,  his  Table  Round, 
Known  as  they  are,  to  me  they  are  unknown." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of  knights, 
"Known  am  I,  and  of  Arthur's  hall,  and  known. 
What  I  by  mere  mischance  have  brought,  my  shield. 
Bat  since  I  go  to  Joust  as  one  unknown 


At  Camelot  for  the  dlMmond,  aak  roe  not. 
Hereafter  you  shall  know  me— and  the  shield— 
i  P">7  you  lend  mc  one,  if  sacb  jrou  have. 
Blank,  or  at  least  with  aonM  davice  not  mine." 


Then  said  Ihe  Lord  of  Astolat,  "  Here  Is  Torre's : 
Hurt  in  his  Arst  lilt  was  my  eon,  Mir  Torre. 
And,  so,  God  wot,  his  shield  is  blank  enough. 
His  yoa  can  have."   Then  added  plain  8ir  Torre, 
"  Yoa  ainoe  I  cannot  use  it,  you  may  have  It." 
Here  laugh'd  the  father,  saying,  "  Fie,  8ir  Cbarl, 
Is  that  an  answer  for  a  noble  knight? 
Allow  him :  but  Lavaine,  my  younger  here. 
He  is  ao  (bll  of  lustihood,  he  will  ride 
Joust  for  it,  and  win,  and  bring  It  in  an  hour 
And  set  it  in  this  damsel's  golden  hnir, 
To  make  her  thrice  as  wilftal  as  before." 

"Nay,  father,  nny,  good  father,  shame  me  not 
Before  this  noble  knight,"  said  young  Lnvalne, 
"For  nothing.    Surely  1  but  play'd  on  Torre: 
lie  bcenj'd  so  sullen,  vcxt  he  could  not  go : 
A  Jest,  no  more:  for,  knight,  the  maiden  dreamt 
That  some  one  put  this  diamond  in  her  hand. 
And  that  it  was  too  slippery  to  be  held. 
And  slipt  and  fell  into  somn  pool  or  stream. 
The  castlc-well,  belike:  and  then  I  said 
That  if  I  went  and  i/  I  fonght  and  won  it 
(But  all  was  Jest  and  Joke  among  ounwilvcK) 
Then  must  she  keep  it  safeller.    All  was  Jest. 
Bui  father  give  me  leave,  an  if  he  will. 
To  ride  to  Camelot  with  this  noble  knight: 
Win  shall  I  not,  but  do  my  best  to  win : 
Young  aa  I  am,  yet  would  1  do  my  best." 

"So  you  will  grace  mc,"  answer'd  Lancelot, 
Smiling  a  moment,  "with  your  fellowship 
O'er  thcfe  waste  downs  whereon  I  lost  myself. 
Then  were  I  glad  of  you  as  guide  and  friend , 
And  you  shall  win  this  diamond— as  1  hear. 
It  is  a  fair  large  diamond,— if  you  may. 
And  yield  it  to  this  maiden  if  you  will." 
"  A  fair  large  diamond,"  added  plain  Sir  Torre. 
"  Such  be  for  Queens  and  not  for  simple  maids. " 
Then  she,  who  held  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
Elaine,  and  heard  her  name  so  tost  about, 
Flush'd  slightly  at  the  slight  disparagement 
Before  the  stranger  knight,  who,  looking  at  her, 
Full  courtly,  yet  not  falsely,  thus  reinrn'd : 
"  If  what  is  fair  be  but  for  what  is  fair, 
And  only  Queens  are  to  be  counted  so. 
Rash  were  my  judgment  then,  who  deem  thia  maid 
Might  wear  as  fair  a  jewel  as  is  on  earth. 
Not  violating  the  bond  of  like  to  like." 

He  spoke  and  ceased:  the  lily  maid  Elaine, 
Won  by  the  mellow  voice  before  she  look'd. 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  his  lineamculs. 
The  great  and  guilty  love  he  bare  the  Queen, 
In  battle  with  the  love  he  bare  his  lord. 
Had  marr'd  his  face,  and  mark'd  it  ere  his  time. 
Another  sinning  on  such  heights  with  one. 
The  flower  of  all  the  west  and  all  ^hc  world, 
Had  been  the  sleeker  for  it:  but  in  him 
His  mood  was  often  like  a  flend,  and  rose 
And  drove  him  into  wastes  and  solitudes 
For  agony,  who  was  yet  a  living  soul. 
Marr'd  as  he  was,  he  seem'd  the  goodliest  man. 
That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  Hall, 
And  noblest,  when  she  lifted  np  her  eyes. 
However  marr'd,  of  more  than  twice  her  years, 
Seam'd  with  an  ancient  swordcnt  on  the  cheek. 
And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  np  her  eyes 
And  loved  him,  with  that  love  which  was  her  doom. 

Then  the  great  knight,  the  darling  of  the  conrt, 
Loved  of  the  loveliest,  into  that  rude  hall 
Slept  with  all  grace,  and  not  with  half  disdain 


170 


ELAINE. 


Hid  under  grace,  as  in  a  smaller  time, 

But  kindly  man  moving  among  bis  kind: 

Whom  they  with  meats  and  vintage  of  their  best 

And  talk  and  minstrel  melody  entertain'd. 

And  much  they  ask'd  of  court  and  Table  Round, 

And  ever  well  and  readily  answer'd  he : 

But  Lancelot,  when  they  glanced  at  Guinevere, 

Suddenly  speaking  of  the  wordless  man. 

Heard  fl-om  the  Baron  that,  ten  years  before, 

The  heathen  caught  and  reft  him  of  his  tongue. 

"  He  learnt  and  warn'd  me  of  their  tJerce  deBign 

Against  my  house,  and  him  they  caught  and  maim'd: 

But  I  my  SODS  and  little  daughter  fled 

From  bonds  or  death,  and  dwelt  among  the  woods 

By  the  great  river  in  a  boatman's  hut. 

Dull  days  were  those,  till  our  good  Arthur  broke 

The  Pagan  yet  once  more  on  Badon  hilL" 

"O  there,  great  Lord,  doubtless,"  Lavaine  said,  rapt 
By  all  the  sweet  and  sudden  passion  of  youth 
Toward  greatness  iu  its  elder,  "you  have  fought 
O  tell  us;  for  we  live  apart,  you  know 
Of  Arthur's  glorions  wars."    And  Lancelot  spoke 
And  answer'd  him  at  full,  as  having  been 
With  Arthur  in  the  fight  which  all  day  long 
liang  by  the  white  mouth  of  the  violent  Qlem ; 
And  iu  the  four  wild  battles  by  the  shore 
Of  Duglas ;  that  on  Bassa ;  then  the  war 
That  thunder  d  in  and  out  the  gloomy  skirta 
Of  CeiidoD  the  forest ;  and  again 
By  castle  Garoion  where  the  glorious  King 
Had  ou  his  cairass  worn  our  Lady's  Head, 
Carved  of  one  emerald,  centred  in  a  sun 
Of  silver  rays,  that  lighten'd  as  be  breathed; 
Aud  at  Caerleon  had  be  belp'd  his  lord, 
Wheu  the  strong  neighlngs  of  the  wild  white  Horse 
Set  every  gilded  parapet  sbnddering ; 
Aud  up  in  Agned  Cathregonion  too. 
And  down  the  waste  sand^ehores  of  Trath  Treroit, 
Where  many  a  heathen  fell;  "and  on  the  mount 
Of  Badon  I  myself  beheld  the  King 
Charge  at  the  head  of  all  his  Table  Round, 
Aud  all  his  legions  crying  Christ  and  bim. 
And  break  them ;  and  I  saw  him,  after,  stand 
High  on  a  heap  of  slain,  from  spur  to  plume 
Red  as  the  rising  sun  with  heathen  blood. 
And  seeing  me,  with  a  great  voire  he  cried, 
•They  are  broken,  they  are  broken,'  for  the  King, 
However  mild  he  seems  at  home,  nor  cares 
For  triumph  in  our  mimic  wars,  the  Jousts — 
For  if  his  own  knight  cast  him  down,  he  laughs 
Saying,  his  knights  are  better  men  than  be- 
Yet  in  this  heathen  war  the  fire  of  God 
Fills  him ;  I  never  saw  his  like ;  there  lives 
No  greater  leader." 

While  he  utter'd  this, 
Low  to  her  own  heart  said  the  lily  maid, 
"Save  your  great  self,  fair  lord;'   and  when  he  fell 
From  talk  of  war  to  traits  of  pleasantry- 
Being  mirthful  he  but  in  a  stately  kind- 
She  still  took  note  that  when  the  living  smile 
Died  from  his  lips,  across  him  came  a  cloud 
Of  melancholy  swere,  from  which  again. 
Whenever  in  hef  hovering  to  and  fro 
The  lily  maid  had  striven  to  make  him  cheer, 
There  brake  a  sudden-beaming  tenderness 
Of  manners  and  of  nature :  and  she  thought 
That  all  was  nature,  all,  perchance,  for  her. 
And  all  night  long  his  face  before  her  lived, 
As  when  a  painter,  poring  on  a  face. 
Divinely  thro'  all  hindrance  finds  the  man 
Behind  it,  and  so  paints  him  that  his  face. 
The  shape  and  color  of  a  mind  and  life. 
Lives  for  his  children,  ever  at  its  best 
And  fullest ;  so  the  face  before  her  lived. 
Dark-splendid,  speaking  in  the  silence,  full 
Of  noble  things,  and  held  her  from  her  sleep. 
Till  rathe  she  rose,  half-cheated  iu  the  thought 


She  needs  must  bid  farewell  to  sweet  Lavaine. 

First  as  in  fear,  step  after  step,  she  stole, 

Down  the  long  tower-stairs,  hesitating: 

Anon,  she  heard  Sir  Lancelot  cry  in  the  court, 

"  This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it  V  and  Lavaine 

Past  inward,  as  she  came  from  out  the  tower. 

There  to  bis  proud  horse  Lancelot  tum'd,  and  smootbd 

The  glossy  shoulder,  humming  to  himself. 

Half-envious  of  the  fiatteriug  hand,  she  drew 

Nearer  and  stood.    He  look'd,  aud  more  amazed 

Than  if  seven  men  had  set  upon  him,  saw 

The  maiden  standing  in  the  dewy  light. 

He  had  not  dreamed  she  was  so  beautiful. 

Then  came  on  him  a  sort  of  sacred  fear, 

For  silent,  tho'  he  greeted  her,  she  stood 

Rapt  on  bis  face  as  if  it  were  a  God's. 

Suddenly  fiashed  on  her  a  wild  desire. 

That  he  should  wear  her  favor  at  the  tilt 

She  braved  a  riotous  heart  in  asking  for  it 

"  Fair  lord,  whose  name  I  know  not — noble  it  is, 

I  well  believe,  the  noblest— will  you  wear 

My  favor  at  this  tourney  f"    "Nay,"  said  he, 

"  Fair  lady,  since  I  never  yet  have  worn 

Favor  of  any  lady  In  the  lists. 

Such  is  my  wont,  as  those  who  know  me,  know.** 

"  Yea,  so,"  she  answer'd ;  "  then  in  wearing  mine 

Needs  most  be  lesser  likelihood,  noble  lord. 

That  those  who  know  should  know  you."    And  he 

tnrn'd 
Her  counsel  np  and  down  within  his  mind. 
And  found  it  true,  and  answer'd,  "  True,  my  child. 
Well,  I  will  wear  it :  fetch  It  out  to  me : 
What  is  itr"  and  she  told  bim  "a  red  sleeve 
Broider'd  with  pearls,"  and  broaght  it:    then   lie 

bound 
Her  token  on  his  helmet,  with  a  smile 
Saying,  "  I  never  yet  have  done  so  much 
For  any  maiden  living,"  and  the  blood 
Sprang  to  her  face,  and  fill'd  her  with  delight; 
But  left  her  all  the  paler,  when  Lavaine 
Returning  brought  the  yet  nnblazon'd  shield, 
His  brother's ;  which  he  gave  to  Lancelot, 
Who  parted  with  his  own  to  (air  Elaine  ; 
"  Do  me  tills  grace,  my  child,  to  have  my  shield 
In  keeping  till  I  come."    "  A  grace  to  me," 
She  answer'd, "  twice  to^ay.    I  am  your  Squire." 
Whereat  Lavaine  said  laughing,  "  Lily  maid. 
For  fear  our  people  call  you  lily  maid 
In  earnest  let  me  bring  your  color  back; 
Once,  twice,  and  thrice  :  now  get  yon  hence  to  bed :" 
So  kiss'd  her,  and  Sir  Lancelot  his  own  hand. 
And  thus  they  mov'd  away:  she  stay'd  a  minute. 
Then  made  a  sudden  step  to  the  gate,  and  there— 
Her  bright  hair  blown  about  the  serious  face 
Yet  rosy-kindled  with  her  brother's  kiss- 
Paused  in  the  gateway,  standing  by  the  shield 
In  silence,  while  she  watch'd  their  arms  far  off 
Sparkle,  until  they  dipt  below  the  downs. 
Then  to  her  tower  she  climb'd,  and  took  the  shield. 
There  kept  it  and  so  lived  in  fantasy. 

Meanwhile  the 'new  companions  past  away 
Far  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless  downs. 
To  where  Sir  Lancelot  knew  there  lived  a  knight 
Not  far  from  Camelot  now  for  forty  years 
.\  hermit  who  had  pray'd,  labor'd  and  pray'd 
And  ever  laboring  had  scoop'd  himself 
In  the  white  rock  a  chapel  and  a  hall 
On  massive  columns,  like  a  shoreclifi' cave. 
And  cells  and  chambers :  all  were  fair  and  dry ; 
The  green  light  from  the  meadows  underneath 
Struck  up  and  lived  along  the  milky  roofs ; 
And  in  the  meadows  tremulous  aspen-trees 
And  poplars  made  a  noise  of  falling  showers, 
And  thither  wending  there  that  night  they  bode. 

But  when  the  next  day  broke  from  underground. 
And  shot  red  fire  and  shadows  thro'  the  cave, 


ELAINK. 


in 


Tbey  roM,  heard  taam,  brok«  tut.  Mid  rod*  away : 
>Tben  Lancelot  aajrlag,  "  Hear,  bnt  hold  my  name 
Hidden,  yoa  ride  with  Lancriut  of  the  Lake," 
Abaah'd  Lavalne,  whoae  Instaut  reverenoe, 
Bearer  to  trae  yoonff  hearu  than  their  own  pralae, 
But  left  him  leave  to  atemmer,  "I*  li  indMdr* 
Anil  after  mottering  "  the  great  Lancclut " 
At  la*t  he  got  hia  breath  and  anawer'd,  "Onei 
One  have  I  aeen— that  other,  our  liege  lord, 
llie  dread  Pendragoo,  Britaln'a  ktug  of  kinga, 
or  whom  the  people  talk  myaterioiwly, 
He  will  be  there— then  were  I  atrlrken  blind 
That  minnte,  I  might  aay  that  I  had  aeeu." 

80  upake  Laralne,  and  when  they  reach'd  the  lists 
By  Citmolot  in  the  meadow,  let  hIa  eyea 
Run  thnt'  the  peopled  gallery  which  half  round 
Lay  like  a  minbow  flill*n  npon  the  graaa, 
Until  they  found  the  clear-fkced  King,  who  ant 
Robed  in  red  samite,  easily  to  be  known, 
Since  to  hie  crown  the  golden  dragon  clang. 
And  down  his  robe  the  dragon  writhed  In  gold. 
And  from  the  carven-work  behind  him  crept 
Two  dragons  gilded,  «lopinf;  down  to  mnke 
Arms  for  his  chair,  while  all  the  rest  of  them 
Thro'  kuot«  and  loops  and  foldo  iDnumcrnhlo 
Fled  ever  thro'  the  woodwork,  till  tliey  fouiid 
The  new  dcMign  wherein  they  lost  thcm«clves. 
Yet  with  all  ease,  so  tender  was  the  work: 
And,  In  the  coetly  canopy  o'er  him  set, 
Biased  the  last  diamond  of  the  nameless  king. 

Then  Lancelot  answer'd  yonng  Lavaine  and  said, 
"Me  you  call  great:  mine  Is  the  firmer  sent. 
The  truer  lance:  but  there  is  many  a  youth 
Now  crescent,  who  will  come  to  nil  I  am 
And  overcome  it:  and  in  me  there  dwells 
No  greatness,  save  it  be  some  far-off  touch 
Of  greatness  to  know  well  I  am  not  great : 
There  Is  the  man."    And  Lavalne  );nped  npon  him 
As  on  a  thing  miraculous,  and  anon 
The  tmmpeta  blew :  and  then  did  either  side. 
They  that  assailed,  and  they  that  held  the  lists, 
8et  lance  in  rest,  strike  spur,  suddenly  move. 
Meet  in  the  midst,  and  there  so  fuHoui^ly 
Shock,  that  a  niun  far-off  mi;;ht  well  perceive, 
If  any  man  that  day  were  left  afleld, 
The  bard  earth  shake,  and  a  low  thunder  of  arms. 
And  Lancelot  bode  a  little,  till  be  saw 
Whic^  were  the  weaker :  then  he  hnri'd  into  it 
Against  the  stronger:  little  need  to  i^peak 
Of  Lancelot  in  his  <:lory :  Kinpr,  duke,  esirl. 
Count,  baron — whom  he  smote,  he  overthrew, 

Bat  in  the  field  were  Lancelot's  kith  and  kin. 
Ranged  with  the  Table  Round  that  held  the  lists, 
Strong  men,  and  wrathful  that  a  stranjrer  knight 
Should  du  and  alraot<t  overdo  the  deeds 
Of  Lancelot ;  and  one  said  to  the  other,  "  Lo ! 
What  is  he?    I  do  not  mean  the  force  alone. 
The  grace  and  versatility  of  the  man- 
ia It  not  Lancelot !"    "  When  has  Lancelot  worn 
Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists  r 
Not  sach  his  wont,  as  we,  that  know  him,  know." 
"How  then?  who  then?"  a  fnry  seized  on  them, 
A  fiery  family  passion  for  the  name 
Of  Lancelot,  and  a  glory  one  with  theirs. 
They  couch'd  their  spears  and  prick'd  their  steeds 

and  thus. 
Their  pinmes  driv'n  backward  by  the  wind  they  made 
In  moving,  all  together  down  opon  bim 
Bare,  as  a  wild  wave  in  the  wild  North-sea, 
Green-glimmering  toward  the  summit,  bears,  with  all 
Its  stormy  crests  that  smote  against  the  skies, 
Down  on  a  bark,  and  overbears  the  bark. 
And  him  that  helms  it,  so  they  overbore 
Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger,  and  a  spear 
Dowu-glancing  lamed  the  charger,  and  a  spear 


Prick'd  sharply  his  own  eolrtaa,  uid  the  head 
Pierced  thro'  bhi  aide,  and  there  esapt,  and  romaiu'd. 

Then  Sir  Lavalne  did  well  and  worahipfhily ; 
He  bore  a  knight  of  old  repute  to  the  earth, 
And  brooght  his  horae  Ut  Lancelot  where  he  lay. 
He  np  the  side,  aweating  with  agony,  got. 
Bat  thought  to  do  while  he  might  yet  eudnre. 
And  being  lustily  hulpen  by  the  rest, 
His  party,— tho'  it  seemed  half-miracle 
To  thoae  he  fought  with— dravo  his  kith  and  1.;:  , 
And  all  the  Table  Hound  that  held  the  liftx, 
Back  to  the  barrier;  then  the  heralds  blew 
Proclaiming  hia  the  prise,  who  wore  the  sleeve 
or  scarlet,  and  the  pearls ;  and  all  the  knights 
Hia  party,  cried  "  Advance,  and  uke  your  prize 
The  diamond ;"  but  he  answer'd,  "  Dianiuud  mo 
No  diaroonda !  fbr  Ood's  love,  a  little  air ! 
Prise  me  no  prises,  for  my  prize  is  death  ! 
Hence  will  I  and  I  charge  you,  follow  me  uoU" 

He  spoke,  and  vanlsh'd  suddenly  from  the  field 
With  young  Lavalne  into  the  |H)plar  grove. 
There  from  his  charger  down  he  slid,  and  sat. 
Gasping  to  Sir  Lavalne,  "  Draw  the  lance-head :" 
"  Ah,  my  sweet  lord.  Sir  Lancelot,"  said  Lavaiuc, 
"  I  dread  me,  if  I  draw  it,  you  will  die." 
I  But  he,  "  I  die  already  with  it :  draw — 
I  Draw  "—and  Lavalne  drew,  and  that  other  gave 
I  A  marvellous  great  shriek  and  ghastly  groan, 
I  And  hair  his  blood  burst  forth,  and  down  he  sank 
:  For  the  pure  pain,  and  wholly  swoou'd  away. 
Then  came  the  hermit  out  and  bare  him  in. 
There  stauch'd  his  wound ;  and  there,  in  daily  doubt 
Whether  to  live  or  die,  for  mnuy  a  week 
Hid  from  the  wide  world's  rumor  by  the  grove 
or  poplars  with  thpir  noise  of  falling  showers. 
And  ever-tremulous  aspen-trees,  be  lay. 

But  on  that  day  when  Lancelot  fled  the  lists, 
His  party,  knights  of  utmost  North  and  West, 
Lords  of  waste  marches,  kings  of  desolate  isles. 
Came  round  their  great  Pendragon,  saying  to  him, 
I  "  Lo,  Sire,  our  knight  thro'  whom  we  won  the  day 
j  Hath  gone  sore  wounded,  and  hath  left  his  prize 
{  Uutaken,  crying  that  his  prize  Is  death." 
!  "  Heaven  hinder,"  said  the  King,  "  that  such  an  one. 
So  great  a  knight  as  we  have  seen  to-day- 
He  seem'd  to  me  another  Lancelot- 
Yen,  twenty  times  I  thought  him  Lancelot — 
He  must  not  pass  nncared  for.    Gawain,  rise, 
My  nephew,  and  ride  forth  and  find  the  knight 
Wounded  and  wearied,  needs  must  he  be  near. 
j  I  charge  yon  that  yon  get  at  once  to  horse. 
And,  knights  and  kings,  there  breathes  not  one  of 
I  yon 

Will  deem  fhfs  prize  of  onrs  is  rashly  given : 
His  prowess  was  too  wondrous.    We  will  do  him 
No  customary  honor:  since  the  knight 
Came  not  to  uc,  of  ns  to  claim  the  prize, 
;  Ourselves  will  send  it  after.    Wherefore  take 
This  diamond,  and  deliver  it,  and  return, 
And  bring  us  what  he  is  and  how  he  rares. 
And  cease  not  rrom  your  quest,  until  you  find." 

80  saying  from  the  carven  flower  above. 
To  which  it  made  a  restless  heart,  he  took. 
And  gave,  the  diamond :  then  from  where  he  sat 
At  Arthur's  right,  with  smiling  face  arose. 
With  smiling  face  and  frowning  heart,  a  Prince 
In  the  mid  might  and  flonrish  or  his  May, 
Gnwain,  snrnnmed  The  Courteous,  fair  and  strong, 
'  And  after  Lancelot,  Tristram,  and  Geraint 
'  And  Lamorack,  a  g<xMl  knight,  but  therewithal 
jSir  Modred's  brother,  or  a  crafty  house, 
I  Nor  often  loyal  to  his  word,  and  now 
I  Wroth  thdtthe  king's  command  to  sally  forth 
I  In  quest  of  whom  lie  knew  not,  made  him  leave 
i  The  banquet,  and  concourse  of  knights  and  kings. 


172 


ELAINE. 


80  all  in  wrath  he  got  to  horse  and  went; 
While  Arthur  to  the  banqnet,  dark  in  mood, 
Past,  thinking,  "  Is  it  Lancelot  who  has  come 
Despite  the  wound  he  spake  of,  all  for  gain 
Of  glory,  and  has  added  wound  to  wound, 
And  ridd'u  away  to  die?"    80  fear'd  the  King, 
And  after  two  days'  tarrlance  there,  returu'd. 
Then  when  he  saw  the  Queen,  embracing,  ask'd, 
"  Love,  are  you  yet  so  sick  ?"    "  Nay,  lord,"  she  f aid. 
"  And  where  is  Lancelot?"   Then  the  Queen  amazed, 
"  Was  he  not  with  you?  won  he  not  yonr  prize?" 
"Nay,  but  one  like  him."    "Why  that  like  was  he." 
And  when  the  King  demanded  how  she  knew. 
Said,  "  Lord,  no  sooner  had  you  parted  from  ue, 
Than  Lancelot  told  nie  of  a  common  talk 
That  men  went  down  iMjfore  his  npcar  at  a  touch, 
But  knowing  he  was  Lancelot;  his  great  name 
Conquer'd  :  and  therefore  would  he  hide  his  name 
From  all  men,  e'en  the  king,  and  to  this  end 
Had  made  the  pretext  of  a  hindering  wound. 
That  he  might  Joust  unknown  of  all,  and  learn 
If  his  old  prowess  were  In  aught  decay'd : 
And  added,  'Our  true  Arthur,  when  he  learns, 
Will  well  allow  my  pretext,  a«  for  gain 
Of  purer  glory.' " 

Tlicn  replied  the  King: 
"  Far  lovelier  In  our  Lancelot  had  it  l>een, 
In  lieu  of  idly  dallying  with  the  truth, 
To  have  trusted  me  as  be  has  tnutcd  yotL 
Surely  bis  king  and  most  familiar  friend 
Might  well  have  kept  his  secret.    True,  indeed, 
AllMsit  I  know  my  knights  fantastical. 
So  One  a  fear  iu  our  large  Lancelot 
Must  needs  have  moved  my  laughter:  now  remains 
But  little  cause  for  laughter:  his  own  kin- 
Ill  news,  my  Queen,  for  all  who  love  him,  thccel 
Ills  kith  and  kin,  not  knowini;,  i>et  upon  him; 
So  that  he  went  sore  wounded  from  the  fleld : 
Yet  good  news  too:  for  goodly  hopes  are  mine 
That  Lancelot  is  no  more  a  lonely  heart 
He  wore,  against  his  wont,  upon  bis  helm 
A  sleeve  of  scarlet,  broidered  with  great  peurls, 
Some  gentle  maiden's  gifu" 

"  Yea,  lord,"  sbe  said, 
"  Tonr  hopes  are  mine,"  and  saying  that  she  choked. 
And  sharply  turn'd  about  to  hide  her  face. 
Moved  to  her  chamber,  and  there  flung  herself 
Down  on  the  great  King's  couch,  and  writhed  npon 

It, 
And  clench'd  her  fingers  till  they  bit  the  palm, 
And  shriek'd  out  "  traitor  "  to  the  unhearing  wall, 
Then  flash'd  into  wild  tears,  and  rose  again. 
And  moved  about  her  palace,  pruod  and  pale. 

Qawain  the  while  thro*  all  the  region  roand 
Rode  with  his  diamond,  wearied  of  the  quest, 
Touch'd  at  all  points,  except  the  poplar  grove. 
And  came  at  last,  tho'  late,  to  Astolat : 
Whom  glittering  in  enamell'd  arms  the  maid 
Olanced  at,  and  cried  "What  news  from  Camelot, 

lord  ? 
What  of  the  knight  with  the  red  sleeve  ?*•     "  He 

won." 
"I  knew  it,"  she  said.    "But  parted  from  the  jonsts 
Hurt  in  the  side,"  whereat  she  caught  her  breath. 
Thro'  her  own  side  she  felt  the  sharp  lance  go : 
Thereon  she  smote  her  hand  :  wellnigh  she  swoon'd: 
.\nd  while  he  gazed  wonderingly  at  her,  came 
The  lord  of  Astolat  out,  to  whom  tlie  Prince 
Reported  who  he  was,  and  on  what  qnest 
Sent,  that  he  bore  the  prize  and  could  not  find 
The  victor,  but  had  ridden  wildly  round 
To  seek  him,  and  was  wearied  of  the  search. 
To  whom  the  lord  of  Astolat,  "Bide  with  ne, 
And  ride  no  longer  wildly,  noble  Prince ! 
Here  was  the  knight,  and  here  he  left  Aehield ; 
This  will  he  send  or  come  for :  furthermore 
Oar  son  is  with  him ;  we  shall  hear  anou. 


Needs  must  we  hear."    To  this  the  courteous  Prince 
Accorded  with  his  wonted  courtesy. 
Courtesy  with  a  touch  of  traitor  in  it. 
And  8tuy'd ;  and  cast  his  eyes  on  fair  Elaine : 
Where  could  be  found  face  daintier  ?  then  her  shape 
From  forehead  down  to  foot  perfect — again 
I  From  foot  to  forehead  exquisitely  turn'd: 

"Well — if  I  bide,  lo:  this  wild  flower  for  me!" 
I  And  oft  they  met  among  the  garden  yews, 
1  And  there  he  set  liimself  to  play  upon  her 
With  sallying  wit,  free  flashes  from  a  height 
i  Above  her,  graces  of  the  court,  and  songs, 
I  Sighs,  and  slow  smiles,  and  golden  eloquence 
I  And  amorous  adulation,  till  the  maid 
!  Kebell'd  against  it,  saying  to  him,  "Prince, 
'  O  loyal  nephew  of  our  noble  King, 
j  Why  ask  you  not  to  see  the  shield  he  left, 
,  Whence  yon  might  learn  bis  name?    Why  slight 
your  King, 
And  lose  the  quest  he  sent  yon  on,  and  prove 
No  surer  than  our  falcon  yesterday, 
Who  lost  the  hern  we  slipt  him  at,  and  went 
To  all  the  winds?"  "Nay,  by  mine  head,"  said  he, 
"*I  lose  it,  as  we  lose  the  lark  in  heaven, 

0  damsel,  in  the  light  of  your  blue  eyes: 
But  an  you  will  it  let  me  see  the  shield." 

And  when  the  shield  was  brought,  and  Gawain  saw 
Sir  Lancelot's  azure  lions,  crown'd  with  gold, 
Itamp  in  the  fleld,  he  smote  his  thigh  and  mock'd; 
"  Right  was  the  King !  our  Lancelot !  that  true  man  !" 
"  And  right  was  I,"  she  answer'd  merrily,  "  I, 
Who  dream'd  my  knight  the  greatest  knight  of  all." 
"And  If  /  dream'd,"  said  tiawaiu,  "that  yon  love 
This  greatest  knight,  your  pardon  1  lo,  yon  know  it : 
Speak  therefore:  shall  I  waste  myself  in  vain?" 
Full  simple  was  her  answer:  "What  know  I? 
My  brethren  have  been  all  my  fellowship. 
And  I,  when  often  they  have  talked  of  love, 
Wlsb'd  it  had  been  my  mother,  for  they  talk'd, 
Meseem'd,  of  what  they  knew  not :  so  myself— 

1  know  not  if  I  know  what  true  love  is, 
Hut  if  I  know,  then,  if  I  love  not  him, 
Methinks  there  is  none  other  I  can  love." 

"  Yea,  by  God's  death,"  said  he,  "  you  love  him  well. 
But  would  not,  knew  yon  what  all  others  know. 
And  whom  he  loves."    "So  be  it,"  cried  Elaine, 
And  lifted  her  fair  face  and  moved  away: 
But  he  pursued  her  calling,  "Stay  a  little! 
One  golden  minute's  grace:  he  wore  your  sleeve: 
Would  he  break  faith  with  one  I  may  not  nq|De? 
Must  onr  tme  man  change  like  a  leaf  at  last? 
May  it  be  so?  why  then,  far  be  it  from  me 
To  cross  onr  nilghty  Lancelot  iu  his  loves  1 
And,  damsel,  for  I  deem  you  know  full  well 
Where  yonr  great  knight  Is  hidden,  let  me  leave 
My  quest  with  you;  the  diamond  also:  here  ! 
For  if  you  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  give  It; 
And  if  he  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  have  it 
From  your  own  hand :  and  whether  he  love  or  not, 
A  diamond  is  a  diamond.    Fare  you  well 
A  thousand  times  !— a  thousand  times  farewell ! 
Yet,  if  he  love,  and  his  love  hold,  we  two 
I  May  meet  at  court  hereafter;  there,  I  think, 
So  you  will  learn  the  courtesies  of  the  court, 
We  two  shall  know  each  other." 

Then  he  gave. 
And  slightly  kiss'd  the  hand  to  which  he  gave, 
The  diamond,  and  all  wearied"  of  the  quest 
Leapt  on  his  horse,  and  carolling  as  he  went 
A  true-love  ballad,  lightly  rode  away. 

Thence  to  the  court  he  past ;  there  told  the  King 
What  the  King  knew,  "Sir  Lancelot  is  the  knight." 
And  added,  "  Sire,  my  liege,  so  much  I  learnt ; 
But  fail'd  to  find  him  tho'  I  rode  all  round 
The  region :  but  I  lighted  on  the  maid, 
Whose  sleeve  he  wore ;  she  loves  him :  and  to  her, 
Deeming  onr  courtesy  is  the  traest  law, 


BLAINE. 


178 


I  Rave  Um  dlamoadi  ah*  win  render  It  i 

For  by  mine  bend  eite  knows  hla  hldlntH^lace." 

The  Mldom<ftownlni;  Klnj;  (Vown'd,  nnd  replied, 
"  T(H>  couneow  truly !  yoti  nhitll  ipi  no  mora 
On  qoeet  of  mine,  MeinK  that  you  A>rKet 
Obedience  la  the  courtesy  duo  to  kings." 

He  ppake  and  parted.    Wroth  but  nil  In  awe, 
For  twenty  siMken  of  the  bluod,  wlihuut  a  word, 
Linger'd  that  other,  vlnrlui;  arior  him  : 
Tben  •h(H)k  hix  hair,  titriKlc  off,  and  busi'd  abroad 
About  the  maid  of  Awiolat,  and  her  love. 
All  car*  were  prick'd  at  ouce,  all  tongues  were  loosed : 
"  The  maid  of  Avtolat  loves  Sir  Lancelot, 
Sir  Lancelot  loves  the  maid  of  Astolau" 
!>ome  read  the  King's  ikce,  some  the  Queen's,  and  all 
Had  roanrel  what  the  maid  might  be,  but  most 
Predimm'd  her  as  unworthy.    One  old  dame 
Came  suddenly  on  the  Queen  with  the  sharp  news. 
She,  that  had  heard  the  noine  of  it  iHjfore, 
Km  mirrowlng  Lancelot  should  have  stoop'd  so  low, 
Marr'd  her  (Hend's  point  with  pale  tranquillity. 
So  ran  the  taie  ltk#  Are  about  the  court, 
Kire  In  dry  stnbble  a  nine  days*  wonder  flared: 
Till  eT*n  the  kniijhis  at  banquet  twice  or  thrice 
Forgot  to  drmk  to  Uniicelot  and  the  Qnecu, 
And  pledt;lnt?  Lancelot  and  the  Illy  maid 
■Smiled  at  each  other,  while  the  Queen  who  sat 
With  lips  severely  placid  felt  the  knot 
Olimb  in  her  throat,  and  with  her  Teet  unwen 
Cnixh'd  the  wild  paMlon  out  against  the  floor 
Beneath  the  banquet,  where  the  meats  became 
As  wormwood,  and  she  hated  all  who  pledged. 

But  far  away  the  maid  in  Astolat, 
Her  guiltless  rival,  she  that  ever  kept 
The  one-day-seen  Sir  Lancelot  In  her  heart. 
Crept  to  her  father,  while  he  mused  alone, 
!$at  on  his  knee,  stroked  his  gray  face  and  said, 
"Father,  you  call  me  wilful,  and  the  fault 
Is  yonr»  who  let  me  have  my  will,  and  now, 
Sweet  father,  will  you  let  me  lose  my  wits?" 
"Nay,"  said  he,  "surely."    "Wherefore  let  me  hence," 
She  answer'd,  "and  And  out  our  dear  Lavaiue." 
"You  will  not  lose  your  wits  for  dear  Lavaine: 
Bide,"  answer'd  he:  "we  needs  must  hear  anon 
Of  him,  and  of  that  other."    "Ay,"  she  said, 
"  And  of  that  other,  for  I  needs  must  hence 
And  And  that  other,  wheresoe'er  he  be. 
And  with  mine  own  hand  give  his  diamond  to  bim, 
Lest  I  be  found  as  faithless  in  the  quest 
As  yon  proud  Prince  who  left  the  quest  to  me. 
Sweet  father,  I  behold  him  In  my  dreams 
Oauiit  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself, 
Death-pale,  for  lack  of  gentle  maiden's  aid. 
The  gentler-bom  the  maiden,  the  more  bound, 
My  father,  to  be  sweet  and  serviceable 
To  noble  knights  In  sickness,  as  yon  know. 
When  these  have  worn  their  tokens:  let  roe  hence 
I  pray  yon."    Then  her  father  nodding  said, 
"Ay,  ay,  the  diamond:  wit  you  well,  my  child. 
Right  fain  were  I  to  learn  thu  knight  were  whole. 
Being  our  greatest :  yea,  and  yon  mnat  give  It— 
And  sure  I  think  this  fruit  is  hung  too  high 
For  any  mouth  to  gape  for  save  a  Queen's — 
Nay,  I  mean  nothing :  so  then,  get  yon  gone. 
Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go." 

Lightly,  ber  suit  ailow'd,  she  sllpt  away. 
And  while  she  made  her  ready  for  her  ride. 
Her  father's  latest  word  hnmm'd  in  her  ear, 
••  Being  so  very  wilful  yon  must  go," 
And  changed  itseif  and  echoed  in  her  heart, 
"Being  so  very  wilfnl  you  must  die." 
Bnt  she  was  happy  enough  and  shook  it  off. 
As  we  shake  ofl"  the  bee  that  buzzes  at  us . 
And  in  her  heart  she  auswerd  it  and  Mitd, 


"What  matter,  ao  I  help  bin  back  to  UttV 
Tben  tu  away  with  good  Sir  Tom  Ibr  guide 
Rode  o'er  the  k>ng  backs  of  the  buahlesa  down* 
To  Camelot,  and  before  the  clty>galee 
Came  on  her  brother  wlUi  a  happy  Aioe 
Making  a  roan  horse  caper  and  curvet 
For  pleaaura  all  about  a  Held  of  flowera ; 
Wbon  when  abe  saw, "  Lavaine,'  she  cried, "  Lavaine, 
IIow  Sues  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot  T"    lie  anuued, 
"Torre  and  Klaine!  why  here!    Sir  Lancelot! 
IIow  know  yon  my  lord's  name  la  Lancelot  t** 
But  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  ber  tale. 
Then  tum'd  Sir  Torre,  and  being  In  bia  mooda 
Left  them,  and  under  the  strango^tatued  gate. 
Where  Arthur's  wars  were  render'd  myatlcally, 
Past  up  the  still  rich  city  to  bia  kin. 
Ills  own  far  blood,  which  dwelt  at  Camelot  -. 
And  her  Lavaine  acrosa  the  poplar  grove 
Led  to  the  caves :  there  first  she  saw  the  casque 
Of  Lancelot  on  the  wall :  her  scarlet  sleeve, 
Tho'  carved  and  cut,  and  half  the  pearia  away, 
Siream'd  fi-om  It  still:  and  in  her  heart  she  laugh'd, 
Because  he  had  not  loosed  It  firom  his  helm. 
But  meant  ouce  more  perchance  to  tourney  in  it. 
And  when  they  gaiu'd  the  cell  in  which  he  slept, 
Uts  battle-writheu  urnis  and  mighty  handa 
Lay  naked  on  the  woirt<kin,  and  a  dream 
Of  dragging  down  his  enemy  made  them  move. 
Then  she  that  saw  him  lying  uusleek,  unshorn. 
Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself, 
Utter'd  a  lltlle  tender  dolorous  cry. 
The  sound  not  wonted  in  a  place  so  still 
Woke  the  sick  knight,  and  while  he  roH'd  his  eyes 
Yet  blank  from  sleep,  she  started  to  him,  saying, 
"Your  prize  the  diamond  sent  you  by  the  King:" 
His  eyes  glisten 'd:  she  fancied  "is  it  for  met" 
And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  the  tale 
Of  King  and  Prince,  the  diamond  sent,  the  quest 
Assigu'd  to  her  not  worthy  of  it,  she  knell 
Full  lowly  by  the  comers  of  his  bed, 
And  laid  the  diamond  in  bis  open  hand. 
Her  face  was  near,  and  aa  we  kiss  the  child 
That  does  the  task  assign'd,  be  kiss'd  her  face. 
At  ouce  she  sllpt  like  water  to  the  floor. 
"Alas,"  he  said,  "your  ride  has  wearied  you. 
Rest  must  you  have."    "No  rest  for  me," she  said: 
"Nay,  for  near  yon,  fair  lord,  I  am  at  rest." 
What  might  she  mean  by  that?  his  large  black  eyes. 
Yet  larger  thro'  his  leanness,  dwelt  upon  her, 
Till  all  her  heart's  sad  secret,  blazed  Itself 
In  the  heart's  colors  on  her  simple  face; 
And  Lancelot  look'd  and  was  perplezt  in  mind, 
And  being  weak  in  body  said  no  more: 
But  did  not  love  the  color,  woman's  love, 
Save  one,  he  not  regarded,  and  so  tnm'd 
Sighing,  and  feigu'd  a  sleep  until  he  slept 

Then  rose  Elaine  and  glided  thro'  the  fields. 
And  past  beneath  the  wildly-sculptured  gatea 
Far  up  the  dim  rich  city  to  her  kin ; 
There  bode  the  night :  but  woke  with  dawn,  and  past 
Down  thro'  the  dim  rich  city  to  the  fields, 
Thence  to  the  cave:  so  day  by  day  she  past 
In  either  twilight  ghost-like  to  and  fro 
Gliding,  and  every  day  she  tended  him. 
And  likewise  many  a  night:  and  Lancefot 
Would,  tho'  he  call'd  his  wound  a  little  hurt 
Whereof  he  should  be  quickly  whole,  at  times 
Braln-feverons  In  his  heat  and  agony,  seem 
Uncourteons,  even  he:  bnt  the  meek  maid 
Sweetly  forbore  him  ever,  being  to  him 
Meeker  than  any  child  to  a  rough  nurse. 
Milder  than  any  mother  to  a  sick  child. 
And  never  woman  yet,  since  man's  first  fall. 
Did  kindlier  unto  man,  bnt  her  deep  love 
Upbore  her :  till  the  hermit,  nkill'd  in  all 
The  simples  and  the  science  of  that  time. 
Told  bim  that  ber  fine  core  had  saved  bis  life. 


174 


ELAINE. 


And  the  sick  man  forgot  her  simple  blush, 

Would  call  her  friend  and  sister,  sweet  Elaine, 

Would  listen  for  her  coming  and  regret 

Her  parting  step,  and  held  her  tenderly. 

And  loved  her  with  all  love  except  the  love 

Of  man  and  woman  when  they  love  their  best 

Closest  and  sweetest,  and  had  died  the  deutb 

In  any  knightly  fashion  for  her  sake. 

And  peradventure  had  he  seen  her  first 

She  might  have  made  this  and  that  other  world 

Another  world  for  the  sick  man ;  but  now 

The  shackles  of  an  old  love  straiten'd  him, 

His  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stood. 

And  faith  nufaithful  kept  him  falsely  true. 

Tet  the  great  knight  in  his  mid-sickness  made 
Full  many  a  noly  vow  and  pure  resolve. 
These,  as  but  bora  ot  sickness,  could  not  live : 
For  when  the  blood  ran  lustier  iu  him  again. 
Full  often  the  sweet  image  ol  one  face. 
Making  a  treacberou»  quiet  iu  bis  heart, 
Dispersed  his  resolution  like  a  cloud. 
Then  if  the  maiden,  while  that  ghostly  grace 
Beam'd  on  bis  fancy,  spoke,  he  auswer'd  not. 
Or  short  and  coldly,  and  she  knew  right  well 
What  tne  rough  sickness  meant,  bat  what  this  meant 
She  knew  not,  and  the  sorrow  dimm'd  ber  sight. 
And  drave  her  ere  ber  time  across  the  fields 
Far  into  the  rich  city,  where  alone 
She  murmur'd,  "Vain,  in  vain:  it  cannot  be. 
He  will  not  love  me :  bow  tbent  most  I  dieT' 
Then  as  a  little  helpless  innocent  bird. 
That  has  but  one  plain  passage  of  few  notes, 
Will  sing  the  simple  passage  o'er  and  o'er 
For  all  an  April  morning,  till  the  ear 
Wearies  to  bear  it,  so  the  simple  maid 
Went  half  the  night  repeating,  "Must  I  diet" 
And  now  to  right  she  tnrn'd,  and  now  to  led. 
And  found  no  ease  in  turning  or  iu  rest : 
And  "him  or  death  "  she  mutter'd,  "death  or  him," 
Again  and  like  a  burthen,  "  him  or  death." 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot's  deadly  hurt  was  whole. 
To  Astalot  returaing  rode  the  three. 
There  mora  by  morn,  arraying  her  sweet  self 
In  that  wherein  she  deem'd  she  look'd  her  best. 
She  came  before  Sir  Lancelot,  for  she  thought 
"  If  I  1)6  loved,  these  are  my  festal  robes. 
If  not,  the  victim's  flowers  before  he  falL" 
And  Lancelot  ever  prest  upon  the  maid 
That  she  should  ask  some  goodly  gift  of  him 
For  her  own  self  or  hers;  "and  do  not  shun 
To  speak  the  wish  most  near  to  your  true  heart; 
Such  service  have  you  done  me,  that  I  make 
My  will  of  yours,  and  Prince  and  Lord  am  I 
In  mine  own  land,  and  what  I  will  I  can." 
Then  like  a  ghost  she  lifted  up  her  tace. 
But  like  a  ghost  without  the  power  to  speak. 
And  Lancelot  saw  that  she  withheld  her  wish. 
And  bi>de  among  them  yet  a  little  space. 
Till  he  should  leara  it ;  and  one  mora  it  chanced 
He  found  her  in  among  the  garden  yews. 
And  said,  "  Delay  no  longer,  speak  your  wish. 
Seeing  I  must  go  to-day:"  then  out  she  brake: 
"Going?  and  we  shall  never  see  you  more. 
And  I  must  die  for  want  of  one  bold  word." 
"Speak:  that  I  live  to  hear,"  be  said,  "is  yours." 
Then  suddenly  and  passionately  she  spoke: 
"I  have  gone  mad.    I  love  you:  let  me  die." 
"Ah  sister,"  answer'd  Lancelot,  "  what  is  this?" 
And  innocently  extending  her  white  arras, 
"Your  love,"  she  said,  "your  love — to  be  your  wife." 
And  Lancelot  answer'd,  "  Had  I  chos'n  to  wed, 
I  bad  been  wedded  earlier,  sweet  Elaine : 
But  now  there  never  will  be  wife  of  mine." 
"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  "  I  care  not  to  be  wife, 
But  to  be  with  you  still,  to  see  your  face. 
To  serve  you,  and  to  follow  you  thro  the  world." 


And  Lancelot  answer'd,  "  Nay,  the  world,  the  world. 
All  ear  and  eye,  with  such  a  stupid  heart 
To  interpret  ear  and  eye,  and  such  a  tongue 
To  blare  its  own  interpretation — nay. 
Full  ill  then  should  I  quit  your  brother's  love, 
And  your  good  father's  kindness."    And  she  said, 
"  Not  to  be  with  you,  not  to  see  your  face — 
Alas  for  me  then,  my  gt)od  days  are  done." 
"Nay,  noble  maid,"  he  answer'd,  "ten  times  nayT' 
This  is  not  love :  but  love's  first  flash  in  youth, 
Most  common:  yea,  I  know  it  of  mine  own  self: 
And  you  yourself  will  smile  at  your  own  self 
Hereafter,  when  you  yield  your  flower  of  life 
To  one  more  fitly  yours,  not  thrice  your  age : 
And  then  will  I,  for  true  you  are  and  sweet 
Beyond  mine  old  belief  in  womanhood. 
More  specially  should  your  good  knight  be  poor. 
Endow  you  with  broad  land  and  territory 
Even  to  the  half  my  realm  beyond  the  seas, 
So  that  would  make  you  happy;  furthermore, 
Bv'n  to  the  death,  as  tho'  you  were  my  blood. 
In  all  your  quarrels  will  I  be  your  knight. 
This  will  I  do,  dear  damsel,  for  your  sake. 
And  more  than  this  I  cannot."  a 

While  he  spoke 
She  neither  blnsh'd  nor  shook,  but  deathly-pale 
Stood  grasping  what  was  nearest,  then  replied, 
"Of  all  this  will  I  nothing;"  and  so  fell. 
And  Urns  they  bore  her  swooning  to  ber  tower. 

Then  spake,  to  whom  thro'  those  black  waUa  of 
yew 
Their  talk  bad  pierced,  ber  fotber,  "  Ay,  a  flash, 
I  fear  me,  that  will  strike  my  blossom  dead. 
Too  courteous  are  you,  fair  Lord  Lancelot 
I  pray  you,  use  some  rough  discourtesy 
To  blant  or  break  her  paasion." 

Lancelot  said, 
"  That  "wen  against  me ;  what  I  can  I  will :" 
And  there  that  day  rcmain'd,  and  toward  even 
Sent  for  his  shield:  (^11  meekly  rose  the  maid, 
Stript  ofl"  the  case,  and  gave  the  naked  shield; 
Then,  When  she  beard  his  horse  npon  the  stones. 
Unclasping  flung  the  casement  back,  and  look'd 
Down  on  his  helm,  from  which  ber  sleeve  bad  gone. 
And  Lancelot  knew  the  little  clinking  soond: 
And  she  by  tact  of  love  was  well  aware 
That  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  looking  at  him. 
And  yet  be  glanced  not  np,  nor  waved  his  hand. 
Nor  bade  farewell,  bat  sadly  rode  away. 
This  was  the  one  discourtesy  that  he  used. 

So  In  ber  tower  alone  the  maiden  sat: 
His  very  shield  was  gone:  only  the  case. 
Her  own  poor  work,  her  empty  labor,  left. 
But  still  she  heard  him,  still  bis  picture  form'd 
And  grew  between  her  and  the  pictured  walL 
Then  came  ber  father,  saying  In  low  tones 
"  Have  comfort,"  whom  she  greeted  quietly. 
Then  came  ber  brethren  saying,  "Peace  to  thee, 
Sweet  sister,"  whom  she  answer'd  with  all  calm. 
But  when  they  left  her  to  herself  again. 
Death,  like  a  friend's  voice  from  a  distant  fleld 
Approaching  thro'  the  darkness,  called ;  the  owls 
Wailing  had  power  npon  her,  and  she  mixt 
Her  fancies  with  the  sallow-rifted  glooms 
Of  evening,  and  the  moanings  of  the  wind. 

And  in  those  days  she  made  a  little  song. 
And  call'd  her  song  "  The  Song  of  Love  and  Deatb, 
And  sang  it:  sweetly  conld  she  make  and  sing. 

"  Sweet  is  trae  love,  tho'  given  in  vain,  in  vain ; 
And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to  pain: 
I  know  not  which  Is  sweeter,  no,  not  L 

"  Love,  art  thou  sweet  t  then  bitter  death  mnst  be : 
Love,  thou  art  bitter ;  sweet  is  death  to  me. 
O  Love,  If  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die. 


ELAINE. 


175 


"SwMt  Lov«,  that  Menu  not  miul«  to  Aide  awayi 
Sweet  death,  that  Mema  to  make  aa  loveleae  tUy, 
I  kuow  not  which  ia  awceter,  no,  not  I. 

"  I  (kin  would  follow  love,  if  that  coald  be  i 
I  nc«>da  muMt  ftitlow  death,  who  rail*  for  me : 
Cull  and  I  fulluw,  I  follow !  l«t  mo  die." 

IIlKh  with  the  lai>t  line  acaled  her  voice,  and  this, 
All  In  «  t\r>ry  dnwnlng  wild  with  wind 
rii  MithtTxhonrd,  nndthOOght 

W  'i(>  i'liiuitoin  of  the  hooae 

Th.i:  I  ilcnlh,"*  mid  cnll'd 

The  father,  and  all  thrve  in  hurry  and  fenr 
Ran  to  her,  and  lo !  the  blood-red  Wght  uf  daxm 
Flared  on  her  dice,  ahe  abrlUiug  "  Let  me  die  1" 

Aa  when  we  dwell  npon  a  word  we  know 
Repeating,  till  the  word  we  know  8o  well 
Becomes  a  wonder  and  we  know  not  why. 
So  dwelt  the  Atther  on  her  face  and  thought 
"Is  this  Blaine?"  till  back  the  niniden  fell. 
Then  ^ve  a  langnid  hand  to  each,  and  lay, 
Speaking  a  still  good-morrow  with  her  eyee. 
At  last  she  said,  "  Sweet  brothers,  yesternight 
I  seem'd  a  coriotu  little  maid  again. 
As  happy  as  when  we  dwelt  amoni;  the  woods,     . 
And  when  yon  used  to  take  me  with  ibe  flood 
Up  the  great  river  in  the  boatman's  boat. 
Only  yon  would  not  pass  beyond  the  cape 
That  has  the  poplar  on  it:  there  you  flxt 
Your  limit,  oft  returning  with  the  tide. 
And  yet  I  cried  bec4iU!<e  yon  would  not  pass 
Beyond  it,  and  far  up  the  shining  flood 
Until  we  found  the  palace  of  the  king. 
And  yet  you  would  not:  bat  this  night  I  dream'd 
That  I  was  all  alone  upon  the  flood. 
And  then  I  said,  "  Now  shall  I  have  my  will :" 
And  there  I  woke,  but  still  the  wish  remaiu'd. 
So  let  me  hence  that  I  may  pass  at  last 
Beyond  the  poplar  and  far  up  the  flood. 
Until  I  And  the  puliice  of  the  king. 
There  will  I  enter  in  among  them  all. 
And  no  man  there  will  dare  to  mock  at  me ; 
But  there  the  flue  Gawain  will  wonder  at  me, 
And  there  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  muse  at  me; 
Gawaiu,  who  bade  a  thontiaud  farewells  to  me, 
Lancelot,  who  coldly  went  nor  bade  me  one: 
And  there  the  King  will  know  me  and  my  love. 
And  there  the  Queen  herself  will  pity  me. 
And  all  the  gentle  court  will  welcome  me, 
And  after  my  long  voyage  I  shall  rest  I" 

"Peace,"  said  her  father,  "O  my  child,  yon  seem 
Light-headed,  for  what  force  is  yours  to  go. 
So  far,  being  sick  T  and  wherefore  would  you  look 
On  this  proud  fellow  again,  who  scorns  ns  all  ?" 

Then  the  rough  Torre  began  to  heave  and  move. 
And  bluster  into  stormy  sobs  and  say, 
"I  never  loved  him:  an  I  meet  with  him, 
I  care  not  howsoever  great  he  be. 
Then  will  I  strike  at  him  and  strike  him  down. 
Qive  me  good  fortune,  I  will  strike  him  dead. 
For  tills  discomfort  he  hath  done  the  house." 

To  which  the  gentle  sister  made  reply, 
"  Fret  not  yourseH  dear  brother,  nor  be  wroth, 
Seeing  it  is  no  more  Sir  Lancelot's  fault 
Not  to  love  me,  than  it  is  mine  to  love 
Him  of  all  men  who  seems  to  me  the  highest." 

"Highest?"  the  Father  answer'd,  echoing  "high- 
est." 
(He  meant  to  break  the  passion  in  her.)    "Nay, 
Danghtor,  I  know  not  what  yon  call  the  highest ; 
But  this  I  know,  for  all  the  people  know  it. 
He  loves  the  Queen,  and  in  an  open  shame: 


And  ahe  returns  his  love  in  open  shania. 
Utbit  be  high,  what  ia  it  to  b*  low r" 

Then  tpake  the  Illy  maid  of  Astolat : 
"Sweet  Dither,  all  too  faint  and  sick  am  I 
For  aagert  these  are  slanderai  nerer  yet 
Wh  n^>le  man  but  made  IgpoW*  talk. 
He  n^ea  no  flriend  who  never  made  a  (be. 
But  now  It  ia  my  glory  to  have  loved 
One  peerleaa,  without  stain :  so  let  me  paaa, 
My  father,  howsoe'er  I  seem  to  yon. 
Not  iitl  unhappy,  having  luved  God's  beat 
And  greateiii,  tho'  my  love  had  no  retnm. 
Yet,  seeing  you  desire  your  child  to  live, 
Thanks,  but  you  work  against  yoor  own  desire; 
For  if  I  could  believe  the  things  you  say 
I  should  but  die  the  sooner:  wherefore  ceaae, 
Sweet  father,  and  bid  call  the  ghostly  man 
Hither,  and  let  me  shrive  me  clean,  and  die." 

So  when  the  ghoetly  man  had  come  and  gone. 
She  with  a  bee,  bright  as  for  sin  forgiven. 
Besought  Lavalne  to  write  aa  she  devised 
A  letter,  word  for  word ;  and  when  he  ask'd 
"  Is  it  for  Lancelot,  is  it  for  my  dear  lord  t 
Then  will  I  bear  it  gladly;"  she  replied, 
"  For  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  and  all  the  world, 
But  I  myself  must  bear  it."    Then  he  wrote 
The  letter  she  devised ;  which  being  writ 
And  folded,  "O  sweet  father,  tender  and  tme. 
Deny  me  not," she  said— "you  never  yet 
Denied  my  fancies— this,  however  strange. 
My  latest:  lay  the  letter  in  my  hand 
A  little  ere  I  die,  and  clo»e  the  hand 
Upon  it;  I  shall  guard  it  even  in  death. 
And  when  the  heat  is  gone  from  out  my  heart. 
Then  take  the  little  bed  on  which  I  died 
For  Lancelot's  love,  and  deck  it  like  the  Queen's 
For  richness,  and  me  also  like  the  Queen 
In  all  I  have  of  rich,  and  lay  me  on  it. 
And  let  there  be  prepared  a  chariot-bier 
To  take  me  to  the  river,  and  a  barge 
Be  ready  on  the  river,  clothed  in  black. 
I  go  in  state  to  court,  to  meet  the  Queen. 
There  surely  I  shall  speak  for  mine  own  self. 
And  none  of  you  can  speak  for  me  so  well. 
And  therefore  let  our  dumb  old  man  alone 
Oo  with  me,  be  can  steer  and  row,  and  he 
Will  guide  me  to  that  palace,  to  the  doors." 

She  ceased :  her  father  promised :  whereupon 
She  grew  so  cheerful  that  they  deem'd  her  death 
Was  rather  in  the  fantasy  than  the  blood. 
But  ten  slow  mornings  past,  and  on  the  eleventh 
Her  father  laid  the  letter  In  her  hand. 
And  closed  the  hand  upon  it,  and  she  died. 
So  that  day  there  was  dole  in  Astolat. 

But  when  the  next  snn  brake  from  underground. 
Then,  those  two  brethren  slowly  with  bent  brows 
Accompanying,  the  sad  chariot-bier 
Past  like  a  shadow  thro'  the  field,  that  shone 
Full-summer,  to  that  stream  whereon  the  barge, 
Pali'd  all  its  length  in  blackest  samite,  lay. 

!  There  sat  the  life  long  creature  of  the  house, 

'  Loyal,  the  dumb  old  servitor,  on  deck, 

I  Winking  his  eyes,  and  twisted  all  his  (hce. 

I  So  those  two  brethren  from  the  chariot  took 
And  on  the  black  decks  laid  her  in  her  bed, 
Set  in  her  hand  a  lily,  o'er  her  hung 
The  silken  case  with  braided  blaaonings, 

!  And  kiss'd  her  quiet  brows,  and  saying  to  her, 
"Sister,  farewell  forever," and  again, 
"Farewell,  sweet  sister,"  parted  all  in  tears. 

;  Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and  the  dead 
Steer'd  by  the  dumb  went  upward  with  the  flood — 
In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 

.  The  letter— all  her  bright  hair  streaming  down— 


176 


ELAINE. 


And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 
Drawn  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself  iu  white 
All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-featured  face 
Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as  dead 
But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  tho'  she  smiled. 

That  day  Sir  Lancelot  at  the  palace  craved 
Audience  of  Guinevere,  to  give  at  last  , 

The  price  of  half  a  realm,  his  costly  gift. 
Hard-won  and  hardly  won  with  bruise  and  blow. 
With  deaths  of  others,  and  almost  his  own. 
The  nine-years-fought-for  diamonds:  for  he  saw 
One  of  her  house,  and  sent  bim  to  the  Queen 
Bearing  his  wish,  whereto  the  Queen  agreed 
With  such  and  so  unmoved  a  majesty 
She  might  have  secm'd  her  statue,  but  that  be, 
Low-drooping  till  be  weiluigh  kiss'd  her  feet 
For  loyal  awe,  saw  with  a  sidelong  eye 
The  shadow  of  a  piece  of  pointed  lace, 
In  the  Queen's  shadow,  vibrate  on  the  walls, 
And  parted,  laughing  in  bis  courtly  heart. 

All  in  an  oriel  on  the  summer  side. 
Vine-clad,  of  Arthur's  palace  toward  the  stream, 
They  met,  and  Lancelot  kneeling  utter'd,  "  Queen, 
Lady,  my  liege,  In  whom  I  have  my  Joy, 
Take,  what  I  had  not  won  except  for  yon. 
These  jewels,  and  make  mc  happy,  making  them 
An  armlet  for  the  roundest  arm  on  earth, 
Or  necklace  for  a  neck  to  which  the  swan's 
Is  tawnier  than  her  cygnet's:  these  are  words: 
Your  beauty  Is  your  beauty,  and  I  sin 
In  s|>eaklng,  yet  O  grant  my  worship  of  it 
Words,  aa  we  grant  grief  teara.    8uch  sin  in  words 
Perchance  we  both  can  pardon :  but,  my  Queen, 
I  hear  of  rumors  flying  thro'  your  court. 
Our  bond,  as  not  the  bond  of  man  and  wife, 
Should  have  In  it  an  absolnter  trust 
To  make  up  that  defect:  let  rumors  be: 
When  did  not  rumors  flyf  these,  as  I  trust 
That  you  tnist  me  in  your  own  nobleness, 
I  may  not  well  believe  that  you  believe." 

While  thus  he  spoke,  half  turned  away,  the  Qneen 
Brake  ft-om  the  vast  oricl-embowerlng  vine 
Leaf  after  leaf,  and  tore,  and  cast  them  ofl^ 
Till  all  the  place  whereon  she  stood  was  green ; 
Then,  when  he  ceased,  iu  one  cold  passive  band 
Received  at  once  and  laid  aside  the  gems 
There  on  a  table  near  her,  and  replied : 

"  It  may  be,  I  am  quicker  of  belief 
Than  you  believe  me,  Lancelot  of  the  Lake. 
Our  bond  is  not  the  bond  of  man  and  wife. 
This  good  is  in  It,  whatsoe'er  of  111, 
It  can  be  broken  easier.    I  for  you 
This  many  a  year  have  done  despite  and  wrong 
To  one  whom  ever  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I  did  acknowledge  nobler.    WTiat  are  these  t 
Diamonds  for  me  1  they  had  been  thrice  their  worth 
Being  your  gift,  had  yon  not  lost  your  own. 
To  loyal  hearts  the  value  of  ai;  gifts 
Must  vary  as  the  giver's.    Not  for  me ! 
For  her !  for  your  new  fancy.    Only  this 
Grant  me,  I  pray  yon :  have  your  joys  apart 
I  doubt  not  that  however  changed,  yon  keep 
So  much  of  what  is  graceful :  and  myself 
Would  shun  to  break  those  bounds  of  courtesy 
In  which  as  Arthur's  queen  I  move  and  rule: 
So  cannot  speak  my  mind.    An  end  to  this! 
A  strange  one !  yet  I  take  it  with  Amen. 
So  pray  yon,  add  my  diamonds  to  her  pearls : 
Deck  her  with  these ;  tell  her,  she  shines  me  down: 
An  armlet  for  an  arm  to  which  the  Queen's 
Is  haggard,  or  a  necklace  for  a  neck 
O  as  much  fairer — as  a  faith  once  fair 
Was  richer  than  these  diamonds — hers  not  mine — 
Nay,  by  the  mother  of  our  Lord  himself, 


Or  hers  or  mine,  mine  now  to  work  my  will — 
She  shall  not  have  them." 

Saying  which  she  seized, 
Aud,  thro'  the  casement  staudint:  wide  for  beat. 
Flung  them,  aud  down  they  llat-h'd,  aud  smote  the 

stream. 
Then  from  the  smitten  surface  flash'd  as  it  were, 
Diamonds  to  meet  them,  and  they  past  away. 
Then  while  Sir  Lancelot  leant,  in  half  disgust 
At  love,  life,  all  things,  on  the  window  ledge, 
Close  underneath  his  eyes,  and  right  across 
Where  these  had  fallen,  slowly  past  the  barge 
Whereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 
Lay  smiling,  like  a  star  iu  blackest  night 

But  the  wild  Queen,  who  saw  not,  burst  away 
To  weep  aud  wail  iu  secret ;  and  the  barge 
Ou  to  the  palace-doorway  sliding,  paused. 
There  two  stood  arm'd,  aud  kept  the  door;  to  whom, 
All  up  the  marble  stair,  tier  over  tier. 
Were  added  months  that  gai)ed,  and  eyes  that  ask'd 
"What  is  it?"  but  that  oarsman's  haggard  face, 
As  hard  and  still  as  Is  the  face  that  men 
Shape  to  their  fancy's  eye  fi-om  broken  rocks 
On  some  cllflT-side,  appali'd  them,  and  they  said, 
"  He  is  enchanted,  cannot  speak — aud  she, 
•Look  how  she  sleeps — the  Fairy  Queen,  so  fair! 
Tea,  bnt  how  pale!  what  are  they?  flesh  and  blood? 
Or  come  to  take  the  King  to  fairy  land  f 
For  some  do  hold  onr  Arthur  cannot  die. 
But  that  be  passes  into  fairy  laud." 

While  thus  they  babbled  of  the  King,  the  King 
Came  girt  with  knights :  theu  tum'd  the  tongneless 

man 
From  the  half-face  to  tlie  fiiU  eye,  and  roee 
And  poiutcd  to  the  damsel,  aud  the  doora. 
So  Arthur  bade  the  meek  Sir  Perclvale 
Aud  pure  Sir  Galahad  to  uplift  the  maid ; 
Aud  reverently  they  bore  her  into  hall. 
Then  came  the  flne  Gawain  and  wonder'd  at  her. 
And  Lancelot  later  came  and  mused  at  her, 
At  last  the  Queen  herself  and  pitied  her: 
Bnt  Arthur  spied  the  letter  In  her  hand, 
Stoopt,  took,  brake  seal,  aud  read  it ;  this  was  all : 

"  Most  noble  lord.  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  Lake, 
I,  sometimes  call'd  the  maid  of  Astolat, 
Come,  for  yon  left  me  taking  no  fiirewell. 
Hither,  to  take  my  last  farewell  of  you. 
I  loved  you,  and  my  love  had  no  return. 
And  therefore  my  true  love  has  been  my  death. 
And  therefore  to  onr  lady  Guinevere, 
And  to  all  other  ladles,  I  make  moan. 
Pray  for  my  soul,  aud  yield  me  burial. 
Pray  for  my  soul,  thou  too.  Sir  Lancelot 
As  thou  art  a  knight  peerless." 

Thns  he  read. 
And  ever  In  the  reading  lords  and  dames 
Wept  looking  often  fi-om  his  face  who  read 
To  hers  which  lay  so  silent  and  at  times. 
So  tonch'd  were  they,  half-thinking  that  her  lips, 
MTho  had  devised  the  letter,  moved  again. 

Then  ft-eely  spoke  Sir  Lancelot  to  them  all : 
"My  lord  liege  Arthur,  and  all  ye  that  hear. 
Know  that  for  this  most  gentle  maiden's  death 
Right  heavy  am  I ;  for  good  she  was  and  true. 
But  loved  me  with  a  love  beyond  all  love 
In  women,  whomsoever  I  have  known. 
Yet  to  be  loved  makes  not  to  love  again ; 
Not  at  my  years,  however  it  hold  in  youth. 
I  swear  by  truth  and  knighthood  that  I  gave 
No  cause,  not  willingly,  for  such  a  love: 
To  this  I  call  my  friends  in  testimony. 
Her  brethren,  and  her  father,  who  himself 
Besought  me  to  be  plain  and  blunt  and  use. 
To  break  her  passion,  some  discourtesy 


GUI^EVERE. 


177 


Agmlnst  my  n>tnr«:  what  I  oouUI,  I  did. 

I  left  her  and  I  biida  her  do  (Wrewell. 

Tho'  h«tl  I  dreamt  the  damsel  would  hare  died, 

I  mli;ht  bavo  put  mjr  wlu  to  aome  rough  uae. 

And  taelp'd  her  (him  herselL" 

Then  lald  the  Queen 
(8e«  WM  her  wrath,  yet  working  after  atorm), 
"  Ton  might  at  least  hare  done  her  ao  much  grace, 
Fair  lord,  as  would  have  help'd  her  from  her  death." 
lie  raised  his  head,  their  eyea  met  and  hers  fell. 
He  adding, 

"Queen,  she  would  not  be  content 
Save  that  I  wedded  her,  which  could  not  be. 
Then  miKht  ohc  fullow  inc  thru'  the  world,  she  ask'J  ; 
It  cuuUl  not  tK>.     I  told  her  thnt  her  luve 
Was  but  the  fla«h  of  youth,  would  darken  down 
To  rise  hereafter  in  a  Biiller  flame 
Toward  one  more  worthy  of  her — then  wonld  I, 
More  specially  were  he,  she  wedded,  poor, 
Estate  them  with  large  land  and  territory 
In  mine  own  realm  beyond  the  narrow  seas. 
To  keep  them  in  all  Joyauce :  mure  than  this 
I  could  not ;  this  ahe  would  not,  and  she  died." 

He  pausing,  Arthur  answer'd,  "O  my  knfglit. 
It  will  be  to  your  worship,  as  my  knight. 
And  mine,  as  head  of  all  our  Table  Round, 
To  see  that  she  be  buried  worshipfblly." 

So  toward  that  shrine  which  then  tu  all  the  realm 
Was  richest,  Arthur  leading,  slowly  went 
The  marshall'd  order  of  their  Table  Round, 
And  Lancelot  sad  beyond  his  wont,  to  see 
The  maiden  burled,  not  as  one  unknown. 
Nor  meanly,  but  with  gorgeous  obsequies, 
And  mass,  and  rolling  music,  like  a  Queen. 
And  when  the  knights  bad  laid  her  comely  head 
Low  in  the  dust  of  half-forguttcn  king^, 
Then  Arthur  spake  among  them,  "Let  her  tomb 
Be  costly,  and  her  image  thereupon. 
And  let  the  shield  of  Lancelot  at  her  feet 
Be  carven,  and  her  lily  in  her  band. 
And  let  the  story  of  her  dolorous  voyage 
For  all  true  hearts  be  blazon'd  on  her  tomb 
In  letters  gold  and  asurel"  which  was  wrought 
Thereafter;  but  when  now  the  lords  and  dames 
And  people,  from  the  high  door  streaming,  brake 
Disorderly,  as  homeward  each,  the  Queen, 
\|'ho  mark'd  Sir  Lancelot  where  he  moved  apart. 
Drew  near,  and  sigh'd  in  passing  "Lancelot, 
Forgive  me ;  mine  was  jealousy  in  love." 
He  answer'd  with  bis  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
"That  is  love's  curse ;  pass  on,  my  Qneen,  forgiven." 
But  Arthur  who  beheld  his  cloudy  brows 
Approach'd  bim,  and  with  full  affection  flung 
One  arm  about  bis  neck,  and  spake  and  said : 

"Lancelot,  my  Lancelot,  thou  in  whom  I  have 
Most  Joy  and  most  afltance,  for  I  know 
What  thou  hast  been  in  battle  by  my  side, 
And  many  a  time  have  watch'd  thee  at  the  tilt 
Strike  down  the  lusty  and  long-practised  knight, 
And  let  the  younger  and  unskiU'd  go  by 
To  win  his  honor  and  to  make  his  name. 
And  loved  thy  courtesies  and  thee,  a  man 
Made  to  be  loved; — but  now  I  would  to  Gk>d, 
For  the  wild  people  say  wild  things  of  thee. 
Thou  conldst  have   loved  this   maiden,  shaped,  it 

seems. 
By  God  for  thee  alone,  and  from  her  face, 
If  one  may  Judge  the  living  by  the  dead, 
Delicately  pure  and  marvellously  fair. 
Who  might  have  brought  thee,  now  a  lonely  man 
Wifeless  and  heirless,  noble  issue,  sons 
Bom  to  the  glory  of  thy  name  and  fame. 
My  knight,  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  Lake.** 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  "  Fair  she  was,  my  King, 
Pure,  as  you  ever  wish  your  knights  to  be.  i 

12 


To  doabt  her  (hlmeaa  wer«  to  want  an  eye, 
To  doabt  her  pureneas  were  to  want  a  heart,— 
Yea,  to  be  loTed,  If  what  is  worthy  love 
Cooid  bind  him,  but  free  love  wlU  not  be  bound." 

**  Free  love,  ao  bound,  were  freM,"  aald  Um  KIbk 
"Let  love  be  free;  free  love  Is  fur  the  beat: 
And,  after  heaven,  on  our  dull  side  of  death. 
What  should  be  best,  if  nut  so  pure  a  love 
clothed  in  so  pure  a  luvcliuesMr  yot  thee 
She  fail'd  to  bind,  tho'  being,  as  I  think. 
Unbound  aa  yet,  and  gentle,  aa  I  know." 

And  Lancelot  anawer'd  nothing,  but  be  went. 
And  at  the  Inrunning  of  a  little  br(K>k 
Sat  by  the  river  in  a  cove  and  watch'd 
The  high  reed  wave,  and  lifted  up  his  eyes 
And  saw  the  barge  that  brought  her  muvlng  dowt^ 
Far-off,  a  blut  upuu  the  stream,  and  said 
Low  in  hinifuvlf,  "  Ah  simple  heart  and  aweet, 
Yon  loved  mc,  damsel,  surely  with  a  love 
Far  tenderer  than  my  Queen's.     Pray  fur  tby  soolf 
Ay,  that  will  I.    Farewell  too— now  at  last— 
Farewell,  fair  Illy.    'Jealousy  in  love?' 
Not  rather  dead  love's  harsh  heir,  Jealous  pride? 
Queen,  if  I  grant  the  Jealousy  as  of  love. 
May  not  your  crescent  fear  fur  name  and  llune 
Speak,  as  It  waxes,  of  a  love  that  wuies  t 
Why  did  the  King  dwell  on  my  name  to  me  f 
Mine  own  name  shames  me,  seeming  a  reproach,    ', 
Lancelot,  whom  the  Lady  of  the  lake 
Stole  (him  his  mother— as  the  story  nma— 
She  chanted  snatches  of  mysterious  song 
Heard  on  the  winding  waters,  eve  aud  morn 
She  kiss'd  me  saying  thou  art  fair,  my  child. 
As  a  king's  son,  aud  often  in  her  arms 
She  bare  me,  pacing  on  the  dusky  mere. 
Would  she  had  drowu'd  me  in  it,  where'er  it  be  t 
For  what  am  If  what  profits  me  my  name 
Of  greatest  knight?    I  fought  for  it,  and  have  it: 
Pleasure  to  have  it,  none ;  to  lose  it,  pain : 
Now  grown  a  part  of  me:  but  what  use  in  it? 
To  make  men  worse  by  making  my  sin  known  ? 
Or  sin  seem  less,  the  sinner  seeming  great? 
Alas  for  Arthur's  greatest  knight,  a  man 
Not  after  Arthur's  heart  I    I  needs  must  break 
These  bonds  that  so  defame  me:  not  without 
She  wills  it:  would  1,  if  she  will'd  it?  nay. 
Who  knows  ?  but  if  I  would  not,  then  may  God 
I  pray  him,  send  a  sudden  Angel  down 
To  seize  me  by  the  hair  and  he&r  me  far. 
And  fling  me  deep  in  that  forgotten  mere. 
Among  the  tumbled  fragments  of  the  hills." 

So  groau'd  Sir  Lancelot  in  remorseful  pain. 
Not  knowing  be  should  die  a  holy  man. 


GUINEVERE. 

QirziN  GtnirrvKBB  bad  fled  the  court,  and  sat 
There  in  the  holy  house  at  Almesbury 
Weeping,  none  with  her  save  a  little  maid, 
A  novice:  one  low  light  lietwixt  them  bum'd 
Blurr'd  by  the  creeping  mist,  for  all  abroad. 
Beneath  a  moon  unseen  albeit  at  ftill. 
The  white  mist,  like  a  face-cloth  to  the  face. 
Clung  to  the  dead  earth,  and  the  land  was  stilL 

F0r  hither  had  she  fled,  her  cause  of  flight 
Sir  Modred ;  be  the  nearest  to  the  King, 
His  nephew,  ever  like  a  subtle  beast 
Lay  couchant  with  his  eyes  upon  the  throne, 
Ready  to  spring,  waiting  a  chance:  for  this, 
lie  chill'd  the  popular  praises  of  the  King, 
With  silent  smiles  of  slow  disparagement; 


178 


GUINEVERE. 


And  tamper'd  with  the  Lords  of  the  White  Horse, 
Heathen,  the  brood  by  Hengiat  left ;  and  sought 
To  make  disraption  in  the  Table  Round 
Of  Arthur,  and  to  splinter  it  into  fends 
Serving  his  traitorous  end ;  and  all  his  aims 
Were  sharpen'd  by  strong  hate  for  Lancelot. 

For  thus  it  chanced  one  mom  when  all  the  conrt. 
Green-suited,  but  with  plumes  that  mock'd  the  May, 
Had  been,  their  wont,  a-maying  and  retnm'd, 
That  Modred  still  in  green,  all  ear  and  eye, 
Climb'd  to  the  high  top  of  the  garden  wall 
To  spy  some  secret  scandal  if  he  might. 
And  saw  the  Queen,  who  sat  betwixt  her  best 
Enid,  and  lissome  Vivien,  of  her  court 
The  wiliest  and  the  worst;  and  more  than  thia 
He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Lancelot  passing  by 
Spied  where  he  couch'd,  and  as  the  gardener's  hand 
Picks  from  the  colewort  a  green  caterpillar, 
So  from  the  high  wall  and  the  flowering  grove 
Of  grasses  Lancelot  pluck'd  him  by  the  heel. 
And  cast  him  as  a  worm  upon  the  way ; 
But  when  be  knew  the  Prince  tho'  marr'd  with  dust, 
He,  reverencing  king's  blood  in  a  bad  man, 
Made  such  excuses  as  he  might,  and  these 
Full  knightly  without  scorn ;  for  in  those  days 
No  knight  of  Arthur's  noblest  dealt  lu  scorn ; 
Bnt,  if  a  man  were  halt  or  bnnch'd,  in  him 
By  those  whom  Ood  had  made  full-limb'd  and  tall, 
Scorn  was  allow'd  as  part  of  his  defect. 
And  he  was  answer'd  softly  by  the  King 
And  all  bis  Table.    So  Sir  Lancelot  holp 
To  raise  the  Prince,  who  rising  twice  or  thrice 
Full  sharply  smote  his  knees,  and  smiled,  and  went : 
But,  ever  after,  the  small  violence  done 
Rankled  in  him  and  ruffled  all  his  heart. 
As  the  sharp  wind  that  ruffles  all  day  long 
A  little  bitter  pool  about  a  stone 
On  the  bare  coast 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot  told 
This  matter  to  the  Queen,  at  first  she  laugh'd 
Lightly,  to  think  of  Modred's  dnsty  fall, 
Then  shudder'd,  as  the  village  wife  who  cries 
"I  shudder,  some  one  steps  across  my  graro;" 
Then  laugh'd  again,  bnt  fuintlicr,  for  indeed 
She  half-foresaw  that  he,  the  subtle  beast, 
Would  track  her  guilt  until  he  found,  and  hers 
Would  be  forevermore  a  name  of  scorn. 
Henceforward  rarely  could  she  front  in  Hall, 
Or  elsewhere,  Modred's  narrow  foxy  face. 
Heart-hiding  smile,  and  gray  persistent  eye: 
Henceforward  too,  the  Powers  that  tend  the  seal. 
To  help  it  from  the  death  that  cannot  die. 
And  save  it  even  in  extremes,  began 
To  vex  and  plague  her.    Many  a  time  for  hours, 
Beside  the  placid  breathings  of  the  King, 
In  the  dead  night,  grim  faces  came  and  went 
Before  her,  or  a  vague  spiritual  fear — 
Like  to  some  doubtful  noise  of  creaking  doors, 
Heard  by  the  watcher  in  a  haunted  house. 
That  keeps  the  rust  oi  murder  on  the  walls — 
Held  her  awake ;  or  ii  she  slept,  she  dream'd 
An  awfhl  dream ;  for  then  she  seem'd  to  stand 
On  some  vast  plain  before  a  setting  sun, 
And  (i-om  the  sun  there  swiflly  made  at  her 
A  ghastly  something,  and  its  shadow  flew 
Before  her,  till  it  touch'd  her,  and  she  tnm'd— 
When  lo !  her  own,  that  broadening  fi-om  her  feet. 
And  blackening,  swallow'd  all  the  land,  and  iu  it 
Far  cities  burnt,  and  with  a  cry  she  woke. 
And  all  this  trouble  did  not  pass  but  grew; 
Till  ev'n  the  clear  face  of  the  guileless  King,    f 
And  trustful  courtesies  of  household  life. 
Became  her  bane ;  and  at  the  last  she  said, 
"  O  Lancelot,  get  thee  hence  to  thine  own  land, 
For  if  thou  tarry  we  shall  meet  again. 
And  if  we  meet  again  some  evil  chance 
Will  make  the  smouldering  scandal  break  and  blaze 


Before  the  people,  and  our  lord  the  King." 
And  Lancelot  ever  promised,  but  remain'd. 
And  still  they  met  and  met    Again  she  said, 
"  O  Lancelot,  if  thou  love  me  get  thee  hence," 
And  then  they  were  agreed  upon  a  night 
(When  the  good  King  should  not  be  there)  to  meet 
And  part  forever.    Passion-pale  they  met 
And  greeted :  hands  in  hands,  and  eye  to  eye. 
Low  on  the  border  of  her  couch  they  sat 
Stammering  and  staring ;  it  was  their  last  hour, 
A  madness  of  farewells.    And  Modred  brought 
His  creatures  to  the  basement  of  the  tower 
For  testimony;  and  crying  with  full  voice, 
"Traitor,  come  out,  ye  are  trapt  at  last,"  aroused 
Lancelot  who  rushing  outward  lion-like 
Leapt  on  him,  and  hurl'd  him  headlong,  and  he  fell 
Stunu'd,  and  his  creatures  took  and  bare  him  off 
And  all  was  still:  then  she,  "The  end  is  come 
And  I  am  shamed  forever;"  and  he  said, 
"  Mine  be  the'  shame ;  mine  was  the  sin ;  but  rife. 
And  fly  to  my  strong  castle  overseas ; 
There  will  I  hid?  thee,  till  my  life  shall  end. 
There  hold  thee  with  my  life  against  the  worid." 
She  answer'd,  "  Lancelot,  wilt  thou  hold  me  so  f 
Nay  friend,  for  we  hare  taken  our  farewells. 
Would  Ood,  that  tbon  conldst  bide  me  flrom  my- 
self! 
Mine  is  the  shame,  for  I  was  wife,  and  tboa 
Unwedded :  yet  rise  now,  and  let  us  fly. 
For  I  will  draw  me  into  sanctuary. 
And  bide  my  doom."    So  Lancelot  got  her  horse. 
Set  her  thereon,  and  mounted  on  his  own. 
And  then  they  rode  to  the  divided  way. 
There  kiss'd,  and  parted  weeping;  for  he  past 
Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen, 
Back  to  his  land;  bnt  she  to  Almesbury 
Fled  all  night  long  by  glimmering  waste  and  weald, 
And  heard  the  Spirits  of  the  waste  and  weald 
Moan  as  she  fled,  or  thought  she  heard  them  moan ; 
And  in  herself  she  moan'd,  "Too  late,  too  late!" 
Till  in  the  cold  wind  that  foreruns  the  morn, 
A  blot  tu  heaven,  the  Raven,  flying  high, 
Croak'd,  and  she  thought  "  He  spies  a  fleld  of  death ; 
For  now  tbe  heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea, 
Lared  by  tbe  crimes  and  frailties  of  the  court 
Begin  to  slay  the  folk,  and  spoil  the  land." 

And  when  she  came  to  Almesbury  she  spake 
There  to  the  nuns,  and  said,  "  Mine  enemies 
Pursue  me,  bnt,  O  peaceful  Sisterhood, 
Receive,  And  yield  me  sanctuary,  nor  ask 
Her  name,  to  whom  ye  yield  it  till  her  time 
To  tell  you :"  and  her  beauty,  grace,  and  power 
Wrought  as  a  charm  upon  them,  and  they  spared 
To  ask  it 

So  the  stately  Queen  abode 
For  many  a  week,  unknown,  among  the  nuns ; 
Nor  with  them  mix'd,  nor  told  her  name,  nor  sought 
Wrapt  in  her  grief,  for  housel  or  for  shrift, 
But  communed  only  with  the  little  maid, 
Who  pleased  her  with  a  babbling  heedlessness 
Which  often  lured  her  ft-om  herself ;  bnt  now. 
This  night  a  rumor  wildly  blown  about 
Came,  that  Sir  Modred  had  usurp'd  the  realm, 
And  leagued  him  with  the  heathen,  while  tbe  King 
Was  waging  war  on  Lancelot:  then  she  thought, 
"With  what  a  bate  the  people  and  the  King 
Must  hate  me,"  and  bow'd  down  upon  her  hands 
Silent  until  the  little  maid,  who  brook'd 
No  silence,  brake  it  uttering  "  Late !  so  late ! 
What  hour,  I  wonder,  now?"  and  when  she  drew 
No  answer,  by  and  by  began  to  hum 
An  air  the  nuns  had  taught  her;  "Late  so  late!" 
Which  when  she  heard,  the  Queen  look'd  up,  and 

said, 
"  O  maiden,  if  indeed  you  list  to  sing, 
Sing,  and  unbind  my  heart  that  I  may  weep." 
Whereat  full  willingly  sang  the  little  maid. 


OUINEVBRE. 


179 


"  Late,  Ul«,  ao  Ikto  I  and  dark  tbo  ntj^ht  and  ehlll ! 
Late,  lata,  ao  lata  I  but  w«  can  enter  utill. 
Too  lata,  too  lata  t  y«  cannot  enter  now. 

"  No  lli(fat  had  we :  for  that  we  do  repent ; 
And  learning  thia,  the  bridcKroom  will  relent. 
Too  lata,  too  late  I  yc  caunot  enter  now. 

••No  llgbl:  ao  late!  and  dark  itnd  chill  the  night ! 
O  |pt  xu  in,  that  wa  may  And  tho  IlKhtl 
Too  late,  too  late  I  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"  Hare  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom  ia  w>  aweet  f 

0  let  as  in,  tho*  late,  to  kiss  his  (iMt  I 
No,  no,  too  late !  ye  cannot  enter  now." 

80  Ban$;  the  novice,  while,  Aili  passionately, 
Her  head  upon  her  hand«,  remembering 
Der  thou^^ht  when  first  she  came,  wept  the  sad  Qaeen. 
Then  said  the  little  novice  prattling  to  her: 

"  O  pray  you,  noble  lady,  weep  no  more ; 
But  let  my  words,  the  words  of  one  so  small, 
Who  knowing  nothing  knows  but  to  obey, 
And  if  I  do  not  there  is  penance  given- 
Comfort  your  sorrows ;  for  they  do  not  flow 
Prom  evil  done ;  right  sure  am  I  of  that, 
Who  see  your  tender  grace  and  stateliness. 
But  weigh  your  sorrows  with  our  lord  tho  King's, 
And  wei^hint;  And  them  less;  for  gone  ix  he 
To  wage  grim  war  against  Sir  Lancelot  there. 
Round  that  strong  castle  where  he  holds  the  Queen  ; 
And  Modred  whom  he  left  in  char!;e  of  all, 
The  traitor— .\h  sweet  lady,  the  King's  grief 
For  his  own  self,  and  his  own  (juecu,  nnd  realm. 
Must  needs  be  thrice  as  great  as  any  of  ours. 
For  me,  I  thank  the  saints  I  am  not  great. 
For  if  there  ever  come  a  grief  to  me 

1  cry  my  cry  in  silence,  and  have  done: 

None  knows  it,  and  my  tears  have  brought  me  good. 

But  even  were  the  griefs  of  little  ones 

Aa  great  as  thoee  of  great  ones,  yet  this  grief 

Is  added  to  the  griefs  the  great  must  bear. 

That  hoMTsoever  much  they  may  desire 

Silence,  they  cannot  weep  behind  a  cloud : 

As  even  here  they  talk  at  Almesbury 

About  the  good  King  and  his  wicked  Queen, 

And  were  I  such  a  King  with  such  a  Queen, 

Well  might  I  wish  to  veil  her  wickedness, 

But  were  I  such  a  King,  it  could  not  be." 

Then  to  her  own  sad  heart  mntter'd  the  Queen, 
"  Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  innocent  talk  ?" 
But  openly  she  answer'd,  "Must  not  I, 
If  this  false  traitor  have  displaced  his  lord. 
Grieve  with  the  common  grief  of  all  the  realm  f " 

"  Yea,"  said  the  maid,  "  this  is  all  woman's  grief. 
That  «A«  is  woman,  whose  disloyal  life 
Hath  wrought  conftision  in  the  Table  Round 
Which  good  King  Arthur  founded,  years  ago. 
With  signs  and  miracles  and  wonders,  there 
AX  Camelot,  ere  the  coming  of  the  Queen." 

Then  thought  the  Queen  within  herself  again, 
"Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  foolish  prate?" 
But  openly  she  spake  and  said  to  her, 
"O  little  maid,  shut  in  by  nunnery  walls. 
What  canst  thou  know  of  Kings  and  Tablca  Soond, 
Or  what  of  signs  and  wonders,  but  the  signs 
And  simple  miracles  of  thy  nunnery  1" 

To  whom  the  little  novice  garrulously: 
"  Yea,  but  I  know :  the  land  was  full  of  algna 
And  wonders  ere  the  coming  of  the  Queen. 
So  said  my  father,  and  himself  was  knight 
Of  the  great  Table— at  the  founding  of  it : 
And  rode  thereto  IVom  Lyonnesse,  and  he  said 
That  as  he  rode,  an  hour  or  may  be  twain 


After  the  innaet,  down  the  ooaat  he  beard 
Strang*  music,  and  h*  panaad  and  taming— tbara, 
All  down  the  lonely  ooaat  of  Lyonneaae, 

Each  with  a  bcncon-star  upon  hli  head. 
And  with  a  wild  sea-light  about  hia  faet. 
He  aaw  them— headland  after  headland  flanM 
Par  on  Into  the  rich  heart  of  the  woati 
And  In  the  light  the  white  mermaiden  awam. 
And  strong  man-breasted  things  stood  from  the  aea, 
And  aent  a  deep  aea>Tolce  thru'  all  the  land. 
To  which  the  little  elves  of  chasm  and  cleft 
Made  anawer,  sounding  like  a  distant  horn. 
So  said  my  father— yea  and  (kirihermore. 
Next  morning,  while  be  past  the  dim-lit  woods. 
Himself  beheld  three  spirita  mad  with  Joy 
Come  dashing  down  on  a  tall  wayside  flower. 
That  shook  beneath  them,  aa  the  thiatle  shakes 
When  three  gray  Itnneta  wrangle  for  the  seed : 
And  still  at  evenings  on  before  his  horse 
The  flickering  fairy-circle  wheel'd  and  broke 
Plying,  and  llnk'd  again,  and  wheel'd  and  broke 
Plying,  for  all  the  laud  was  full  of  life. 
And  when  at  laft  he  came  to  C'nmelot, 
A  wreath  of  airy  dancers  hand-iu-hand 
Swung  round  the  lighted  lantern  of  tho  hall ; 
.\.nd  in  the  hall  itself  was  such  a  feast 
As  never  man  had  dream'd ;  for  every  knight 
Had  whatsoever  meat  he  long'd  for  served 
By  hands  unseen ;  and  even  as  he  said 
Down  in  the  cellars  merry  bloated  thingt 
Shouldcr'd  the  spigot,  straddling  on  the  butts 
While  tho  wine  ran:  so  glad  were  spirits  and  men 
Before  the  coming  of  the  sinful  Queen." 

Then  spake  the  Queen,  and  somewhat  bitterly, 
"  Were  they  so  glad  T  ill  prophets  were  they  all, 
Spirits  and  men  :  could  none  of  them  foresee. 
Not  even  thy  wise  father  with  his  signs         ' 
And  wonders,  what  haa  fidl'n  upon  the  realm  7" 

To  whom  the  novice  garrulously  again : 
"  Yea,  one,  a  bard :  of  whom  my  father  said, 
Full  many  a  noble  war-song  had  he  sung, 
Ev'n  in  the  presence  of  an  enemy's  fleet, 
Between  the  steep  cliff  and  the  coming  wave ; 
And  many  a  mystic  lay  of  life  and  death 
Had  chanted  on  the  smoky  mountain-tops, 
When  round  him  bent  the  spirits  of  tBe  hills 
With  all  their  dewy  hair  blown  back  like  flame: 
So  said  my  father -and  that  night  the  bard 
Sang  Arthur's  glorioiis  wars,  and  sane  the  King 
As  wellnigh  more  than  man,  and  rail'd  at  thoee 
Who  call'd  him  the  false  sou  of  Gorlois : 
For  there  was  no  man  knew  from  whence  he  came : 
But  after  tempest,  when  the  long  wave  broke 
All  down  the  thundering  shores  of  Bnde  and  Bos, 
There  came  a  day  as  still  as  heaven,  and  then 
They  found  a  naked  child  upon  the  sands 
Of  dark  Dundagil  by  the  Cornish  sea; 
And  that  was  Arthur;  and  they  foster'd  him 
Till  he  by  miracle  was  approven  king: 
And  that  his  grave  should  be  a  mystery 
Prom  all  men,  like  his  birth;  and  could  be  find 
A  woman  in  her  womanhood  aa  great 
As  he  was  in  his  manhood,  then,  be  sang. 
The  twain  together  well  might  change  the  world. 
But  even  in  the  middle  of  his  song 
He  falter'd,  and  his  hand  fell  from  the  hnrp. 
And  pale  he  tnm'd  and  reel'd,  and  would  have  fall'n. 
But  that  they  stay'd  him  up ;  nor  would  he  tell 
His  vision ;  but  what  doubt  that  he  foresaw 
This  evil  work  of  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  1" 

Then  thought  the  Queen,  "  Lo  I  they  have  set  her 
on,    , 
Our  simple-seeming  Abbess  and  her  nuns. 
To  play  upon  roe,"  and  bow'd  her  head  nor  spake. 
Whereat  the  novice  crying,  with  clasp'd  banda. 


180 


GUINEVERE. 


"While  ho  fiMt  the  dim-lit  wood*, 
HloiMir  bebtld  thr**  >|>iriu  uiul  with  joy 
ConM  dufalnc  down  on  a  Ull  wtjrald*  flower." 


Shame  on  her  own  prarrnHty  garrnlonsly. 

Said  the  good  nans  woald  check  her  gadding  tongne 

Full  often,  "And,  sweet  ladv,  If  I  Beem 

To  vex  an  ear  too  sad  to  listen  to  me. 

Unmannerly,  with  prattling  and  the  tales 

Which  my  good  father  told  me,  check  me  too : 

Nor  let  me  shame  my  father's  menioty,  one 

Of  noblest  manners,  tho'  himself  would  say 

Sir  Lancelot  had  the  noblest;  and  he  died, 

Kill'd  In  a  tilt,  come  next,  five  summers  back, 

And  left  me ;  but  of  others  who  remain, 

And  of  the  two  first-famed  for  courtesy — 

And  pray  you  check  me  if  I  ask  amiss — 

But  pray  yon,  which  had  noblest,  while   yon  moved 

Among  them,  Lancelot  or  our  Lord  the  King?" 

Then  the  pale  Queen  look'd  np  and  answer'd  her, 
"Sir  Lancelot,  as  became  a  noble  knight, 


Was  gracioos  to  all  ladles,  and  the  same 
In  open  battle  or  the  tllting-fleld 
Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  the  King 
In  open  battle  or  the  tllting-fleld 
Forebore  his  own  advantage,  and  these  two 
Were  the  most  nobly-mannered  men  of  all ; 
For  manners  are  not  idle,  but  the  fmlt 
Of  loyal  nature,  and  of  noble  mind." 

"Yea,"  said  the  maid,  "be  manners  snch  fair  fruit  J 
Then  Lancelot's  needs  must  be  a  thousandfold 
Less  noble,  being,  as  all  rumor  runs, 
The  most  disloyal  friend  in  all  the  world." 

To  which  a  moomftil  answer  made  the  Queen, 
"  O  closed  about  by  narrowing  nunnery-walls. 
What  knowest  thon  of  the  world,  and  all  its  lights 
And  shadows,  all  the  wealth  and  all  the  woe  ? 


OUINBVERE. 


181 


If  vnt  Lancelot,  that  most  noble  kaifht, 
Wo(«  far  one  hoar  ieia  nobl«  thka  liliiif«l( 
Pray  Ibr  blin  tbat  he  acape  the  doan  of  flra, 
And  w«ep  fur  her  who  drew  blm  to  hia  doom." 

"Yea,"  said  the  little  oorice,  '♦!  pray  (br  both; 
But  I  ahould  all  rni  soon  believe  tbat  hIa, 
Sir  Lancelot 'n  were  aa  noble  u  the  Klni^ 
Aa  I  oooM  thiuk,  aweet  lady,  yoara  woold  be 
bach  aa  they  are,  were  yoo  the  alufUl  Queen." 

So  ahe,  like  many  another  babbirr,  hnrt 
Whom  ahe  would  aoothe,  and   harm'd    wlicro   she 

would  hi*al  : 
For  here  a  sudden  flush  of  wratbfUl  heat 
Flr«d  all  the  pule  fuce  of  the  Quihmi,  who  cried, 
*'  Such  nit  tliou  art  In-  never  muidcn  more 
Forever!  thou  their  t(Hil,  set  on  to  pl.igue 
And  play  upon,  and  harry  me,  petty  vpy 
And  tmitrega."    When  that  storm  of  anger  brake 
Fr.  '  -I',  aghast  the  mniden  rose, 

W!  .I'll,  and  Htood  before  the  Queen 

A"  :  iv  aa  fonm  upon  the  beach 

Siaudii  in  H  wind,  ready  to  break  and  fly, 
And  when  the  Queen  had  added  "  Get  thee  hence !" 
Fled  frighted.    Then  that  other  left  alone 
Sigh'd,  and  began  to  t;nthRr  heart  ajjaln. 
Saying  in  herself,  "  The  simple,  fearful  child 
Meant  nothing,  but  my  own  too-fearfUl  guilt 
Simpler  than  any  child,  betrays  itself. 
But  help  me,  heaven,  for  surely  I  repent 
For  what  is  true  repentance  but  in  thought— 
Not  e'en  in  inmost  thought  to  think  again 
The  sins  that  made  the  past  so  pleasant  to  us : 
And  I  have  sworn  never  to  see  him  more, 
To  see  him  more." 

And  ev'n  in  saying  this, 
Her  memory  from  old  habit  of  the  mind 
Went  slipping  back  npon  the  golden  days 
In  which  she  saw  him  first,  when  Lancelot  came, 
Reputed  the  best  knight  and  goodliest  man, 
Ambasaador,  to  lead  her  to  his  lord 
Arthur,  and  led  her  forth,  and  far  ahead 
Of  his  and  her  retinue  moving,  they, 
Rapt  Id  sweet  thought,  or  lively,  all  on  love 
And  sport  and  tills  and  pleasure,  (f<>r  the  time 
Was  maytlme,  and  as  yet  no  sin  was  dream'd,) 
Rode  under  groves  Miat  look'd  a  paradise 
Of  blossom,  over  sheets  of  hyacinth 
That  eeem'd  the  heavens  npbreaking  thro'  the  earth, 
And  on  fh)m  bill  to  hill,  and  every  day 
Beheld  at  noon  in  some  delicious  dale 
The  silk  pavilions  of  King  Arthur  raised 
For  brief  repast  or  afternoon  repoee 
By  courtiers  gone  before ;  and  on  again, 
TiU  yet  once  more  ere  set  of  sun  they  saw 
The  dragon  of  the  great  Pcndragonship, 
That  crown'd  the  state  pavilion  of  the  King, 
Blase  by  the  mahing  brook  or  silent  welL 

But  when  the  Queen  Immersed  in  such  a  trance. 
And  moving  thro'  the  past  unconsciously. 
Came  to  that  point,  when  first  she  saw  the  King 
Ride  toward  her  from  the  city,  sigh'd  to  find 
Her  Journey  done,  glanced  at  him,  thought  him  cold, 
High,  self'K:ontain'd,  and  passionless,  not  like  him, 
"Not  like  my  Lancelot  "—while  she  brooded  thus 
And  grew  half-guilty  in  her  thoughts  again, 
There  rode  an  armed  warrior  to  the  doors. 
A  murmuring  whisper  thro'  the  nunnery  ran, 
Then  on  a  sndden  a  cry,  "The  King."    She  sat 
Stiff-stricken,  listening :  but  when  armed  feet 
Thro'  the  long  gallery  from  the  outer  doors 
Rang  coming,  prone  from  off  her  seat  she  fell. 
And  grovell'd  with  her  face  against  the  floor: 
There  with  her  milkwhite  arms  and  shadowy  hair 
She  made  her  face  a  darkness  fhim  the  King: 
And  in  the  darkness  heard  his  armed  fe«t 


Paoae  by  hen  then  <  r 
Monotooem  and  h«ii 
Denowidtig  Jndgmem, 


> .  then  a  voice, 

lost 'a 
changed  the  King's. 


"Lieet  Ihon  her*  no  low,  the  child  of  one 

I  bonor'd. '  ■    id  before  thy  shame? 

Well  U  II  111  Is  born  of  thee. 

The  childr'  :  i  thee  are  sword  and  flre, 

Kcd  niln,  and  the  breaking  up  of  laws, 

The  craft  of  kindred  and  the  Godless  bosta 

Of  heathen  awarming  o'er  the  Northeni  Sea. 

Whom  I,  while  yet  Sir  Lancelot,  my  right  arm. 

The  mightiest  of  my  knights  abode  with  mo, 

Have  everywhere  about  this  land  of  Christ 

In  twelve  great  battles  mining  overthrown. 

And  knowest  thon  now  ttom  whence  I  couie— from 

him, 
From  waging  bitter  war  with  him:  and  he, 
That  did  not  shun  to  smite  me  in  worse  way, 
Had  yet  that  grace  of  courtesy  in  him  left, 
He  spared  to  lift  his  baud  against  the  King 
Who  made  him  knight:  but  many  a  knight  waa 

slain : 
And  many  more,  and  all  bis  kith  and  kin 
Clave  to  him,  and  abode  in  his  own  land. 
And  many  more  when  Modred  raised  revolt. 
Forgetful  of  their  troth  and  fealty,  clave 
To  Modred,  and  a  remnant  stays  with  me. 
And  of  this  remnant  will  I  leave  a  part. 
True  men  who  love  me  still,  for  whom  I  live, 
To  guard  thee  in  the  wild  hour  coming  on, 
I.C8t  but  a  hair  of  this  low  head  l)e  harm'd. 
Fear  not:  thou  shait  be  guarded  till  my  death. 
Howbeit  I  know,  if  ancient  prophecies 
Have  err'd  not,  that  I  march  to  meet  my  doom. 
Thou  host  not  made  my  life  so  sweet  to  me, 
That  I  the  King  should  greatly  care  to  live.; 
For  thou  bast  spoilt  the  purpose  of  my  life. 
Bear  with  me  for  the  last  time  while  I  show, 
Ev'n  for  thy  sake,  the  sin  which  thon  bast  sinu'd. 
For  when  the  Roman  left  us,  and  their  law 
Relax'd  its  hold  upon  us,  and  the  ways 
Were  flll'd  with  rapine,  here  and  there  a  deed 
Of  prowess  done  redress'd  a  random  wrong. 
But  I  was  first  of  all  the  kings  who  drew 
The  knighthood-errant  of  this  realm  and  all 
The  realms  together  under  me,  their  Head, 
In  that  fair  order  of  my  Table  Round, 
A  glorious  company,  the  flower  of  men. 
To  serve  as  model  for  the  mighty  world. 
And  be  the  fair  beginning  of  a  time. 
I  made  them  lay  their  bands  in  mine  and  swear 
To  reverence  the  King,  as  if  he  were 
Their  conscience,  and  their  conscience  as  their  King, 
To  break  the  heathen  and  nphold  the  Christ, 
To  ride  abroad  redressing  human  wrongs, 
To  speak  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen  to  it, 
To  lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity, 
To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to  her. 
And  worship  her  by  years  of  noble  deeds, 
Until  they  won  her ;  for  Indeed  I  knew 
Of  no  more  subtle  master  under  heaven 
Than  is  the  maiden  passion  for  a  maid, 
Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in  man, 
But  teach  high  thought,  and  amiable  words 
And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of  fame. 
And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes  a  man. 
And  all  this  throve  until  I  wedded  thee! 
Believing  "lo  mine  helpmate,  one  to  feel 
My  purpose  and  rejoicing  In  my  Joy." 
Then  came  thy  shameful  sin  with  Lancelot; 
Then  came  the  sin  of  Tristram  and  Isolt ; 
Then  others,  following  these  my  mightiest  knigbta, 
And  drawing  foul  ensample  from  fair  namea, 
Sinn'd  also,  till  the  loathsome  opposite 
Of  all  my  heart  had  destined  did  obtain. 
And  all  thro*  thee !  so  that  this  life  of  mine 
I  guard  as  God's  high  gift  f^om  scathe  and  wrong, 


182 


GUINEVERE. 


Not  greatly  care  to  lose;  but  rather  think 

How  sad  it  were  for  Arthur,  should  he  live, 

To  Bit  once  more  within  his  lonely  hall. 

And  miss  the  wonted  number  of  my  knights. 

And  miss  to  hear  high  talk  of  noble  deeds 

As  in  the  golden  days  before  thy  sin. 

For  which  of  us,  who  might  be  left,  could  speak 

Of  the  pure  heart,  nor  seem  to  glance  at  thee  ? 

And  in  thy  bowers  of  Camelot  or  of  Usk 

Thy  shadow  still  would  glide  from  room  to  room. 

And  I  should  evermore  be  vext  with  thee 

In  banging  robe  or  vacant  ornament. 

Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing  on  the  stair. 

For  think  not,  tho'  thou  wouldst  not  love  thy  lord, 

Thy  lord  has  wholly  lost  his  love  for  thee. 

I  am  not  made  of  so  slight  elements. 

Yet  must  I  leave  thee,  woman,  to  thy  shame. 

I  bold  that  man  the  worst  of  public  foes 

Who  either  for  his  own  or  children's  sake. 

To  save  his  blood  from  scandal,  lets  the  wife 

Whom  he  knows  false,  abide  and  rule  the  bouse : 

For  being  thro'  his  cowardice  allow'd 

Her  station,  taken  everywhere  for  pure. 

She  like  a  new  disease,  unknown  to  men. 

Creeps,  no  precaution  used,  among  the  crowd, 

Makes  wicked  lightnings  of  her  eyes,  and  saps 

The  fealty  of  our  friends,  and  stirs  the  pulse 

With  devil's  leaps,  and  poisons  half  the  young. 

Worst  of  the  worst  were  that  man  he  that  reigns ! 

Better  the  King's  waste  hearth  and  aching  heart 

Than  thou  reseated  In  thy  place  of  light, 

The  mockery  of  my  people,  and  their  bane." 

He  paused,  and  in  the  pause  she  crept  an  inch 
Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his  feet 
Far  off  a  solitary  trumpet  blew. 
Then  waiting  by  the  doors  the  war>horae  neigb'd 
As  at  a  ft'ieud's  voice,  and  he  spake  again : 

"Yet  think  not  that  I  come  to  urge  thy  crimes, 
I  did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guinevere, 
I,  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  me  die 
To  see  thee,  laying  there  thy  golden  head, 
My  pride  in  happier  summers,  at  my  feet. 
The  wrath  which  forced  my  thoughts  on  that  fierce 

law. 
The  doom  of  treason  and  the  flaming  death 
(When  first  I  learnt  thee  hidden  here),  is  past. 
The  pang— which  while  I  weigh 'd  thy  heart  with  one 
Too  wholly  true  to  dream  untruth  in  thee, 
Made  my  tears  bum— is  also  past,-  in  part 
And  all  is  past,  the  sin  is  sinn'd,  and  I, 
Lo '.  I  forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 
Forgives:  do  thou  for  thine  own  sonl  the  rest. 
But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  I  loved  f 

0  golden  hair,  with  which  I  used  to  play 
Not  knowing!    O  imperial-moulded  form. 
And  beauty  such  as  never  woman  wore. 
Until  it  came  a  kingdom's  curse  with  thee— 

1  cannot  touch  thy  lips,  they  are  not  mine. 

But  Lancelot's :  nay,  they  never  were  the  King's. 

I  cannot  take  thy  hand;  that  too  is  fiesh. 

And  in  the  flesh  thou  hast  sinn'd ;  and  mine  own 

flesh. 
Here  looking  down  on  thine  polluted,  cries 
'  I  loathe  thee ;'  yet  not  less,  O  Guinevere, 
For  I  was  ever  virgin  save  for  thee. 
My  love  thro'  flesh  hath  ^vrought  into  my  life 
So  far,  that  my  doom  is,  I  love  thee  stilL 
Let  no  man  dream  but  that  I  love  thee  still. 
Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy  soul. 
And  so  thou  lean  on  our  fair  father  Christ, 
Hereafter  in  that  world  where  all  are  pure 
We  two  may  meet  before  high  God,  and  thou 
Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine,  and  know 
I  am  thine  husband — ^not  a  smaller  soul. 
Nor  Lancelot,  nor  another.    Leave  me  that, 
I  charge  thee,  my  last  hope.    Now  must  I  hence. 


Thro'  the  thick  night  I  hear  the  trumpet  blow : 
They  summon  me  their  King  to  lead  mine  hosts 
Far  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the  west. 
Where  I  must  strike  against  my  sister's  son, 
Leagued  with  the  lords  of  the  White  Horse  and 

knights 
Once  mine,  and  strike  him  dead,  and  meet  myself 
Death,  or  I  know  not  what  mysterious  doom. 
And  thou  remaining  here  wilt  learn  the  eveut; 
But  hither  shall  I  never  come  again. 
Never  lie  by  thy  side,  see  thee  no  more, 
Farewell  1" 

And  while  the  grovell'd  at  his  feet, 
She  felt  the  King's  breath  wander  o'er  her  neck. 
And,  in  the  darkness  o'er  her  fallen  head, 
Perceived  the  waving  of  his  hands  that  blest 

Then,  listening  till  those  armed  steps  were  gone. 
Ruse  the  pale  Queen,  and  in  her  anguish  found 
The  casement:     "  Peradveuture,"  so  she  thought, 
"  If  I  might  see  his  face,  and  not  be  seen." 
And  lo,  he  sat  ou  horseback  at  the  door ! 
And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each  a  light 
Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about  the  Queen, 
To  guard  and  foster  her  forevermore. 
And  while  he  spake  to  these  his  helm  was  lower'd. 
To  which  for  crest  the  golden  dragon  clung 
Of  Britain ;  so  she  did  not  see  the  face. 
Which  then  was  as  an  angel's,  but  she  saw, 
Wet  with  the  mists  and  smitten  by  the  lights, 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragonship 
Blaze,  making  all  the  night  a  steam  of  fire. 
.\nd  even  then  he  tum'd ;  and  more  and  more 
The  moony  va|>or  rolling  round  the  King, 
Who  seem'd  the  phantom  of  a  Giant  in  it, 
Enwound  him  fold  by  fold,  and  made  him  gray 
And  grayer,  till  himself  became  as  mist 
Before  her,  moving  ghostlike  to  his  doom. 

Then  she  stretch'd  out  her  arms  and  cried  aloud, 
"O  Arthur!"  there  her  voice  brake  suddenly, 
Then— as  a  stream  that  spouting  from  a  cliff 
Fails  in  midair,  but  gathering  at  the  base 
Re-makes  itself,  and  flashes  down  the  vale- 
Went  on  in  passionate  utterance. 

"  Gone— my  lord  ! 
Gone  thro'  my  sin  to  slay  and  to  be  slain  ! 
And  he  forgave  me,  and  I  could^iot  speak. 
Farewell?    I  should  have  answer'd  his  farewelL 
His  mercy  choked  me.    Gone,  my  lord  the  King, 
My  own  true  lord !  bow  dare  1  call  him  mine  ? 
The  shadow  of  another  cleaves  to  mc. 
And  makes  me  one  pollution :  he,  the  King, 
Call'd  me  polluted :  shall  I  kill  myself f 
What  help  in  that?    I  cannot  kill  my  sin. 
If  soul  l>e  soul ;  nor  can  I  kill  my  shame ; 
No,  nor  by  living  can  1  live  it  down. 
The  days  will  grow  to  weeks,  the  weeks  to  months, 
The  months  will  add  themselves  and  make  the  years. 
The  years  will  roll  into  the  centuries, 
.\nd  mine  will  ever  be  a  name  of  scorn. 
I  must  not  dwell  on  that  defeat  of  fame. 
Let  the  world  be ;  that  is  but  of  the  world. 
What  else?  what  hope?  I  think  there  was  a  hope, 
Except  he  mock'd  me  when  he  spake  of  hope ; 
His  hope  he  call'd  it;  but  he  never  mocks. 
For  mockery  is  the  fume  of  little  hearts. 
And  blessed  be  the  King,  who  hath  forgiven 
My  wickedness  to  him,  and  left  me  hope 
That  in  mine  own  heart  I  can  live  down  sin 
And  be  his  mate  hereafter  in  the  heavens 
Before  high  God.    Ah  great  and  gentle  lord, 
Who  wast  as  is  the  conscience  of  a  saint 
.\mong  his  warring  senses,  to  thy  knights — 
To  whom  my  false  voluptuous  pride,  that  took 
Pull  easily  all  impressions  from  below, 
Would  not  look  up,  or  half-despised  the  height 
To  which  I  would  not  or  I  could  not  climb— 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


18S 


I  tbonght  I  ooald  not  brvtthe  In  that  fln«  air 
That  para  aeTerlty  of  perfect  IlKht— 
I  wanted  warnith  nud  color  which  I  found 
In  Lancelot — now  1  mo  th««  what  thou  art. 
Thou  art  the  hi);iie«t  and  moat  hnmau  ti>o, 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another,    la  there  none 
Will  teU  the  KInir  I  love  him  tho'  ao  latat 
Now— «ra  he  goea  to  the  graat  Battle  t  none : 
Myaelf  moat  tell  him  in  that  purer  life. 
Bat  now  It  were  t(M>  dnrlni;.    Ah  my  («<kI, 
MHiat  might  I  not  have  made  uf  thy  fair  world. 
Had  I  but  lovod  thy  higheai  creatnra  herat 
It  waa  my  duty  to  have  loved  the  hlgheat: 
It  Barely  waa  my  proMt  had  I  known : 
It  woald  have  boon  my  ploaaure  had  I  aeen. 
We  needa  muat  love  the  hii;bciit  when  we  eee  it. 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another." 

Here  her  hand 
Qraap'd,  made  her  voll  her  eyee :  ahe  look'd  aud  saw 
The  novice,  weeping',  suppliant,  and  aaid  to  her, 
"  Yea,  little  maid,  for  am  /  not  forgiven  ?" 
Then  glancing  ap  beheld  the  holy  nnna 
All  round  her,  weeping ;  aud  her  heart  was  looecd 
Within  her,  and  she  wept  with  theae  and  aaid : 

"Ye  know  me  thon,  that  wicked  one,  who  broke 
The  vast  design  and  pnrpof>e  of  the  King. 
O  ahat  OM  round-  with  narrowing  nunnery-walls. 


Meek  naldena,  ttom  the  vokee  crjring  'Shame.' 
I  moat  not  scorn  myself  t  be  love*  oie  stiU. 
liSt  no  one  dream  but  that  he  lovee  ne  alUl. 
So  let  me,  if  you  do  not  Hhudder  at  me 
Nor  shnu  to  call  nip  (•Imor,  ilufll  with  yon: 
Wear  black  and  white,  aud  bo  a  nun  like  yon ; 
Paat  with  your  faata,  not  teaatlng  with  your  feasts; 
Grieve  with  yoar  grieb,  not  grieving  at  yoar  Joys, 
Hut  not  r«>)oicing;  mingle  with  your  rites; 
i'ray  and  be  prayed  for ;  lie  iH'forc  your  ahrlaeai 
l>o  each  low  office  of  your  holy  houce ; 
Walk  your  dim  clolator,  and  distribute  dole 
To  poor  sick  |>eoplc,  richer  in  his  eyes 
Who  ransom'd  ns,  and  hnlcr  Uh>  than  I : 
And  treat  thrir  lonthvomo  hiirtx  and  heal  mine  owns 
And  so  wear  out  In  almsdecd  and  In  prayer 
The  sombre  close  of  that  voluptuous  day, 
Which  wrought  the  ruin  of  my  lord  the  King." 

She  said :  they  took  her  to  themselves ;  and  she 
Still  hoping,  fearing  "  Is  it  yet  too  late »" 
Dwelt  with  them,  till  in  time  their  Abbess  died. 
Then  she,  for  her  goml  deeds  and  her  pnra  life, 
.\nd  for  the  power  of  ministration  in  her, 
And  likewise  for  the  high  rank  she  had  bonie. 
Was  chosen  Abbess,  there,  an  Abbess  lived 
For  three  brief  years,  and  there,  an  Abbesa,  post 
T«>  where  beyond  tbese  voices  then  Is  peace. 


•  ENOCH    ARDEN 


Long  lines  of  cllflT  breaking  have  left  a  chasm ; 
And  in  the  chasm  are  foam  and  yellow  sands; 
Beyond,  red  roofe  about  a  narrow  wharf 
In  cluster ;  then  a  moulder'd  church ;  and  higher 
A  long  street  climbs  to  one  tali-tower'd  mill , 
And  high  in  heaven  behind  it  a  gray  down 
With  Danish  barrows;  and  a  hazel-wood. 
By  autumn  nutters  haunted,  flourishes 
Green  in  a  cnplike  hollow  of  the  down. 

Here  on  this  beach  a  hundred  years  ago, 
Three  children  of  three  houses,  Annie  Lee, 
The  prettiest  little  damsel  in  the  port. 
And  Philip  Ray,  the  miller's  only  son, 
And  Enoch  Arden,  a  rough  sailor's  lad 
Made  orphan  by  a  winter  shipwreck,  play'd 
Among  the  waste  and  lumber  of  the  shore. 
Hard  coils  of  cordage,  swarthy  flshing-nets, 
Anchors  of  msty  fluke,  and  boats  np-drawn  ; 
And  built  their  ca.«tle8  of  dissolving  sand 
To  watch  them  overflow'd,  or  following  up 
And  flying  the  white  breaker,  daily  left 
The  little  footprint  dally  wash'd  away. 

A  narrow  cave  ran  in  beneath  the  cliff: 
In  this  the  children  play'd  at  keeping  honse. 
Enoch  was  host  one  day,  Philip  the  next, 
\Miile  Annie  still  was  mistress ;  but  at  times 
Enoch  would  hold  possession  for  a  week : 
"Thia  is  my  honse  and  this  my  little  wife."* 
"Mine  too,"  said  Philip,  "  turn  and  tnm  about:" 
When,  if  they  quarreU'd,  Enoch  stronger-made 
Was  master:  then  would  Philip,  his  blue  eyes 
All  flooded  with  the  helpless  wrath  of  tears. 
Shriek  ont,  "  I  hate  you,  Enoch,"  and  at  this 
The  little  wife  would  weep  for  company. 
And  pray  them  not  to  quarrel  for  her  sake. 
And  say  she  would  be  little  wife  to  both. 

But  when  tbe  dawn  of  rosy  childhood  past. 
And  the  new  warmth  of  life's  ascending  sou 


Was  felt  by  either,  either  flxt  his  heart 

On  that  one  girl ;  aud  Enoch  spoke  bis  love. 

But  Philip  loved  in  silence;  aud  the  girl 

Seem'd  kinder  unto  Philip  than  to  him; 

But  she  loved  Enoch ;  tho'  she  knew  it  not, 

And  would  if  axk'd  deny  it.    Enoch  set 

A  purpose  evermore  before  his  eyes, 

To  hoard  all  aavings  to  the  uttermost. 

To  parchase  his  own  boat,  and  make  a  home 

For  Annie :  and  so  prosper'd  that  at  last 

A  luckier  or  a  bolder  fisherman, 

A  carefuller  in  peril,  did  not  breathe 

For  leagnes  along  that  breaker-beaten  coast 

Thau  Enoch.    Likewise  had  he  served  a  year 

On  board  a  merchantman,  and  made  himself 

Full  sailor ;  and  he  thrice  had  pluck'd  a  life 

From  the  dread  sweep  of  the  down-streaming  seas : 

And  all  men  look'd  upon  him  favorably : 

And  ere  he  touch'd  his  one-and-twentieth  May, 

lie  purchased  his  own  boat,  and  made  a  home 

For  Annie,  neat  and  nestlike,  half-way  up 

Tbe  narrow  street  that  clamber'd  toward  the  mill. 

Then,  on  a  golden  autumn  eventide, 
The  younger  people  making  holiday, 
\Vith  bag  and  sack  and  basket,  great  and  small, 
Went  nutting  to  the  haxeis,  Philip  stay'd 
His  father  lying  sick  and  needing  him) 
An  hour  behind ;  but  as  he  climb'd  the  hill, 
•Tnst  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood  began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  saw  the  pair, 
Enoch  and  Annie,  sitting  hand-in-hand. 
His  large  gray  eyes  and  weather-beaten  face 
All-kindled  by  a  stiU  and  sacred  Are, 
That  burned  as  on  an  altar.    Philip  look'd. 
And  in  their  eyes  and  faces  read  his  doom ; 
Then,  as  their  faces  drew  together,  groan'd 
And  sllpt  aside,  and  like  a  wounded  life 
Crept  down  into  the  hollows  of  the  wood ; 
There,  while  the  rest  were  loud  with  merry-making, 
Had  bis  dark  hour  nnseen,  and  rose  and  past 
Bearing  a  lifelong  hanger  In  bis  heart. 


184 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


80  these  were  wed,  and  merrily  raug  the  bells, 
And  merrily  ran  the  years,  seven  happy  years, 
Seven  happy  years  of  health  and  competence, 
And  mutual  love  and  honorable  toil; 
With  children  ;  first  a  daughter.    In  him  woke, 
With  his  first  babe's  first  cry,  the  noble  wish 
To  save  all  earnings  to  the  uttermost. 
And  give  his  child  a  better  bringing-up 
Than  his  had  been,  or  hers ;  a  wish  renew'd, 
When  two  years  after  came  a  boy  to  be 
The  rosy  Idol  of  her  solitudes, 
While  Enoch  was  abroad  on  wrathful  seas. 
Or  often  journeying  landward  ;  for  in  tmlh 
Enoch's  white  horse,  and  Enoch's  ocean-spoil 
lu  ocean-smelling  oHier,  and  his  face, 
Rough-redden'd  with  a  thouisand  winter-gales, 
Not  only  to  the  market-cross  were  known, 
But  In  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the  down. 
Far  as  the  portal-warding  lion-whelp, 
And  peacock-yewtree  of  the  lonely  Hall, 
Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch's  ministering. 

Then  came  a  change,  as  all  things  bnman  change. 
Ten  miles  to  northward  of  the  narrow  port 
Open'd  a  larger  haven:  thither  used 
Enoch  at  times  to  go  by  land  or  sea; 
And  once  when  there,  and  clambering  on  a  mast 
In  harbor,  by  mischance  be  slipt  and  fell : 
A  limb  was  broken  when  they  lifted  him; 
And  while  he  lay  recovering  there,  his  wife 
Bore  him  another  son,  a  sickly  one : 
Another  hand  crept  too  across  his  trade 
Taking  her  bread  and  theirs:  and  on  him  fell, 
Altho'  a  grave  and  staid  God-fearing  roan, 
Yet  lying  thus  Inactive,  doubt  and  gloom, 
lie  seem'd,  as  in  a  nightmare  of  the  night. 
To  see  his  children  leading  evermore 
Low  miserable  lives  of  hand-t<vmouth. 
And  her,  he  loved,  a  beggar:  then  he  pray'd 
*'8ave  them  from  this,  whatever  comes  to  me." 
And  while  he  pray'd,  the  master  of  that  ship 
Enoch  had  served  in,  hearing  his  mischance, 
Came,  for  he  knew  the  man  and  valued  blm, 
Reporting  of  bis  vessel  Cblna-bonnd, 
And  wanting  yet  a  boatswain.    Would  he  go  f 
There  yet  were  many  weeks  before  she  sail'd, 
Sail'd  ft-om  this  port    Would  Enoch  have  the  place  f 
And  Enoch  all  at  once  assented  to  it. 
Rejoicing  at  that  answer  to  his  prayer. 

So  now  that  shadow  of  mischance  appear'd 
No  graver  than  as  when  some  little  cloud 
Cuts  off  the  fiery  highway  of  the  sun, 
And  isles  a  light  in  the  ofling :  yet  the  wife— 
When  he  was  gone— the  children— what  to  do? 
Then  Enoch  lay  long-pondering  on  his  plans; 
To  sell  the  boat — and  yet  he  loved  her  well — 
How  many  a  rough  sea  had  he  weather'd  in  her  I 
He  knew  her,  as  a  horseman  knows  his  horse — 
And  yet  to  sell  her — then  with  what  she  brought 
'  Buy  goods  and  stores — set  Annie  forth  in  trade 
With  all  that  seamen  needed  or  their  wives — 
80  might  she  keep  the  house  while  he  was  gone. 
Should  he  not  trade  himself  out  yonder?  go 
This  voyage  more  than  once  ?  yea  twice  or  thrice — 
As  oft  as  needed— last,  returning  rich, 
Become  the  master  of  a  larger  craft. 
With  filler  profits  lead  an  easier  life. 
Have  all  his  pretty  young  ones  educated. 
And  pass  his  days  in  peace  among  his  ovra. 

Thns  Enoch  in  his  heart  determined  all: 
Then  moving  homeward  came  on  Annie  pale, 
Nursing  the  sickly  babe,  her  latest-bom. 
Forward  she  started  with  a  happy  cry. 
And  laid  the  feeble  Infant  in  his  arms; 
Whom  Enoch  took,  and  handled  all  his  limbs, 
Appraised  his  weight,  and  fondled  fatherlike, 


But  had  no  heart  to  break  his  purposes 
To  Annie,  till  the  morrow,  when  he  spoke. 

Then  first  since  Enoch's  golden  ring  had  girt 
Her  finger,  Annie  fought  against  his  will : 
Yet  not  with  brawling  opposition  she, 
But  manifold  entreaties,  many  a  tear. 
Many  a  sad  kiss  by  day  by  night  renew'd 
(Sure  that  all  evil  would  come  out  of  it) 
Besought  him,  supplicating,  if  he  cared 
For  her  or  his  dear  children,  not  to  ga 
He  not  for  his  own  self  caring  but  her. 
Her  and  her  children,  let  her  plead  in  vain ; 
So  grieving  held  his  will,  and  bore  it  thro'. 

For  Enoch  parted  with  his  old  sea-friend. 
Bought  Aunie  goods  and  stores,  and  set  his  hand 
To  fit  their  little  streetward  sitting-room 
With  shelf  and  corner  for  the  goods  and  stores. 
So  all  day  long  till  Enoch's  last  at  home. 
Shaking  their  pretty  cabin,  hammer  and  axe. 
Auger  and  saw,  while  Annie  seem'd  to  hear 
Her  own  death-scaffold  rising,  shrill'd  and  rang, 
Till  this  was  ended,  and  bis  carehil  hand,— 
The  space  was  narrow,— having  order'd  all 
Almost  as  neat  and  cloae  as  Nature  packs 
Her  blossom  or  her  seedling,  paused ;  and  be, 
Who  needs  wonld  work  for  Annie  to  the  last. 
Ascending  tired,  beavily  slept  till  mom. 

And  Enoch  faced  this  morning  of  farewell 
Brightly  and  boldly.    All  bis  Annie's  fears. 
Save  as  bis  Annie's,  were  a  laughter  to  him. 
Yet  Enoch  as  a  brave  Qod-fearing  man 
Bow'd  himself  down,  and  in  that  mystery 
Where  Ood-in-man  is  one  with  man-in-Ood, 
Pray'd  for  a  blessing  on  his  wife  and  babes 
Whatever  came  to  him:  and  then  he  said, 
"  Annie,  this  voyage  by  the  grace  of  Qod 
Will  bring  fair  weather  yet  to  all  of  as. 
Keep  a  clean  hearth  and  a  clear  fire  for  me. 
For  I  'II  be  back,  my  girl,  before  you  know  it." 
Then  lightly  rocking  baby's  cradle,  "and  be, 
This  pretty,  puny,  weakly  little  one,— 
Nay— for  I  love  him  all  the  better  for  it— 
Ood  bless  him,  be  shall  sit  upon  my  knees 
And  I  will  tell  him  talcs  of  foreign  parts, 
.\nd  make  him  merry  when  I  come  home  again. 
Come  Annie,  come,  cheer  np  before  I  go." 

Him  running  on  thns  hopcftilly  she  heard. 
And  almost  hoped  herself;  but  when  he  turn'd 
The  current  of  his  talk  to  graver  things 
In  sailor  fashion  roughly  sermonizing 
On  providence  and  trust  in  Heaven,  she  heard. 
Heard  and  not  heard  him ;  as  the  village  girl. 
Who  sets  her  pitcher  underneath  the  spring. 
Musing  on  him  that  used  to  fill  it  for  her. 
Hears  and  not  bears,  and  lets  it  overflow. 

At  length  she  spoke,  "  O  Enoch,  yon  are  wise : 
.\nd  yet  for  all  your  wisdom  well  know  I 
That  I  shall  look  upon  your  face  no  more." 

"Well  then,"  said  Enoch,  "I  shall  look  on  yonrs. 
Annie,  the  ship  I  sail  in  passes  here 
(He  named  the  day) ;  get  you  a  seaman's  glass. 
Spy  out  my  face,  and  laugh  at  all  your  fears." 

But  when  the  last  of  those  last  moments  came, 
"  Annie,  my  girl,  cheer  np,  be  comforted, 
Look  to  the  babes,  and  till  I  come  again, 
Keep  everything  shipshape,  for  I  must  go. 
And  fear  no  more  for  me ;  or  if  yon  fear 
Cast  all  your  cares  on  God ;  that  anchor  holds. 
Is  He  not  yonder  in  those  uttermost 
Parts  of  the  morning  ?  if  I  flee  to  these 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Iflt 


Cu  I  go  fifum  Ulmr  and  the  ma  I*  His, 
TlM  M*  la  Hlai  H«  mad*  lu" 

Knoch  roMk 
CMt  hk  straag  anna  about  hU  druuplng  wife, 
And  klaaM  hla  wondeM)trickau  Hula  ooaat 
But  fur  the  third,  the  sickly  ona,  who  alapt 
A(t«r  a  night  of  feverous  wakafhlness, 
When  Auuie  would  have  raided  hini  Knoch  Mid, 
*'\V«ke  him  nut;  lei  him  sleep:  how  should   the 

child 
Remember  tbtsr"  and  kiss'd  him  In  his  cot. 
But  Annie  from  her  bsby's  forehead  dipt 
A  liny  curl,  and  iicave  it:  this  he  kept 
Thro'  all  his  fiilure;  but  now  hastily  caught 
Ilia  bundle,  waved  his  hand,  and  went  his  way. 

She,  when  the  day  that  Enoch  mention'd  came, 
Borraw'd  a  glaas,  bnt  all  in  vain :  perhaps 
She  could  not  fix  tb«  glaas  to  suit  her  eye ; 
I'erbaps  her  eye  was  dim,  hand  tremulous ; 
Bbe  saw  him  nut:  and  while  be  stood  on  deck 
Waving,  the  moment  and  the  vessel  paat. 

Bv'n  to  the  last  dip  of  the  vanishinf;  sail 
She  watch'd  it,  and  departed  weeping  fur  him : 
T)>en,  tho'  ahe  moum'd  his  absence  as  his  grave. 
Set  her  sad  will  no  less  to  chime  with  his, 
Bnt  throve  not  in  her  trade,  not  being  bred 
To  barter,  nor  compensating  the  want 
By  shrewdness,  neither  capable  of  lies, 
Nor  asking  overmuch  and  taking  less. 
And  still  foreboding  "  >^'hat  wonld  Enoch  say  T" 
For  more  than  once,  in  days  of  difficulty 
And  pressure,  had  she  sold  her  wares  for  less 
Than  what  she  gave  in  buying  what  she  sold : 
She  fail'd  and  saddcn'd  knowing  it;  and  thus. 
Expectant  of  that  news  which  never  came, 
Oain'd  for  her  own  a  scanty  sustenance. 
And  lived  a  life  of  silent  melancholy. 

Now  the  third  child  was  sickly  bom  and  grew 
Yet  sicklier,  tho'  the  mother  cared  for  It 
With  all  a  mother's  care:  nevertheless. 
Whether  her  business  often  call'd  her  trom  it. 
Or  thro*  the  want  of  what  it  needed  most. 
Or  means  to  pay  the  voice  who  best  could  tcU 
What  most  it  needed— howsoe'er  it  was, 
After  a  lingering,— ere  she  was  aware,— 
Like  the  caged  bird  escaping  suddenly. 
The  little  innocent  soul  flitted  away. 

In  that  same  week  when  Annie  buried  It, 
Philip's  true  heart,  which  bunger'd  for  her  peace 
(Since  Euoch  left  he  had  not  look'd  upon  her). 
Smote  him,  as  having  kept  aloof  so  long. 
"Surely,"  said  Philip,  "I  may  see  her  now. 
Hay  be  some  little  comfort ;"  therefore  went, 
Past  thro'  the  solitary  room  In  front. 
Paused  for  a  moment  at  an  inner  door. 
Then  struck  it  thrice,  and,  no  one  opening, 
Enter'd :  but  Annie,  seated  with  her  grief, 
Presh  from  the  burial  of  her  little  one. 
Cared  not  to  look  on  any  human  face, 
Rut  tum'd  her  own  towiird  the  wall  and  wept. 
Then  Philip  standing  up  said  falteringly, 
"Annie,  I  came  to  ask  a  favor  of  yon." 

He  spoke:  the  passion  in  her  moan'd  reply, 
"Favor  IW>m  one  so  sad  and  so  forlorn 
As  I  am  t"  half  at>ash'd  him :  yet  unask'd, 
His  bashfulness  and  tenderness  at  war. 
He  set  himself  beside  her,  saying  to  her : 

"  I  came  to  speak  to  yon  of  what  he  wish'd, 
Enoclt,  your  husband:  I  have  ever  said 
Ton  chose  the  best  among  ns — a  strong  roan: 
For  where  he  flxt  his  heart  he  set  his  band 


To  do  the  thing  he  wilt'd,  and  bore  it  thro*. 

And  wherelbre  did  he  go  Uiia  weary  way. 

And  leave  you  lonely  f  sot  to  aee  the  world - 

For  pleaaare  r— oay,  hot  tor  the  wherewithal 

To  give  hia  babea  •  better  brlnging^np 

Than  hla  had  been,  or  yonra-  that  waa  his  wish. 

And  If  he  come  again,  vext  will  he  be 

To  And  the  precious  morning  houra  were  lost 

And  It  would  vex  him  even  in  his  grave. 

If  be  could  know  hia  babea  were  running  wild 

IJke  colla  about  the  waste.    So,  Annie,  now— 

Have  we  not  known  each  other  sll  onr  lives  f 

I  do  beseech  yon  by  the  love  you  bear 

Him  and  his  children  not  to  aay  me  nay— 

For,  if  you  will,  when  Knoch  cornea  again 

Why  then  be  shall  repay  me— if  yon  will, 

Annie— for  I  am  rich  and  well-to-do. 

Now  let  mo  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school; 

This  is  the  fkvor  that  I  came  to  aak." 

Then  Annie  with  her  brows  against  the  wall 
Answer'd,  "I  cannot  look  you  in  the  face; 
I  seem  so  foolish  and  so  broken  down; 
When  yon  came  in  my  sorrow  broke  me  down ; 
And  now  I  thinic  your  kindness  breaks  me  down : 
Kut  EncKb  lives ;  that  is  l)ome  in  on  me ; 
He  will  repay  yon :  money  can  be  repaid ; 
Not  kindness  such  as  yours." 

And  Philip  ask'd 
"Then  you  will  let  me,  Annie »" 

There  she  tnm'd, 
She  rose,  and  flxt  her  swimming  eyes  ujmu  him, 
.\nd  dwelt  a  moment  on  hiH  kindly  face. 
Then  calling  down  a  blessing  on  bis  head 
Caught  at  his  hand  and  wrung  it  passionately, 
And  past  into  the  little  garth  beyond. 
So  lifted  up  In  spirit  he  moved  away. 

Then  Philip  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school, 
And  bought  them  needful  books,  and  every  way. 
Like  one  who  does  his  duty  by  his  own. 
Made  himself  theirs ;  and  tho'  for  Annie's  sake. 
Fearing  the  lazy  gossip  of  the  jwrt. 
He  oft  denied  his  heart  his  dearest  wish. 
And  seldom  crost  her  threshold,  yet  he  sent 
Gifts  by  the  children,  garden-herbs  and  fruit. 
The  late  and  early  roses  from  his  wall, 
Or  conies  from  the  down,  and  now  and  then. 
With  some  pretext  of  fineness  In  the  meal 
To  save  the  offence  of  charitable,  flour 
From  bis  tall  mUl  that  whistled  on  the  waste. 

But  Philip  did  not  fathom  Annie's  mind: 
Scarce  could  the  woman  when  he  came  upon  her, 
Out  of  full  heart  and  boundless  gratitude 
Light  on  a  broken  word  to  thank  him  with. 
Hnl  Philip  was  her  children's  all-in-all ; 
From  distant  comers  of  the  street  they  ran 
To  greet  his  hearty  welcome  heartily; 
Ix>rds  of  his  house  and  of  his  mill  were  they; 
Worried  bis  passfve  car  with  petty  wrongs 
Or  pleasures,  hung  upon  him,  play'd  with  him 
And  call'd  him  Father  Philip.    Philip  gain'd 
As  Enoch  lost;  fur  Enoch  seem'd  to  them 
Uncertain  as  a  vision  or  a  dream. 
Faint  as  a  figure  seen  in  early  dawn 
Do^vn  at  the  far  end  of  an  avenue, 
Oolng  we  know  not  where ;  and  so  ten  years, 
Since  Enoch  left  bis  hearth  and  native  laud. 
Fled  forward,  and  no  news  of  Enoch  came. 

It  chanced  one  evening  Annie's  children  long'd 
To  go  with  others,  nutting  to  the  wood. 
And  Annie  would  go  with  them :  then  they  be^d 
For  Father  Philip  (as  they  him  call'd)  too: 
Ilim,  like  the  working-bee  in  bloaaom-dust. 


186 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Blanch'd  with  his  mill,  they  fonnd ;   and  saying  to 

him, 
•'Come  with  ns,  Father  Philip,"  he  denied; 
Bat  when  the  children  plnck'd  at  him  to  go, 
lie  laugh'd,  and  yielded  readily  to  their  wish, 
For  was  not  Annie  with  themf  and  they  went. 

But  after  scaling  half  the  weary  down, 
Ju6t  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood  began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  all  her  force 
Fail'd  her;  and  sighing  "Let  me  rest"  she  said: 
So  Philip  rested  with  her  well-content; 
While  all  the  younger  ones  with  jubilant  cries 
Broke  from  their  elders,  and  tumnlfuously 
Down  thro'  the  whitening  hazels  made  a  plunge 
To  the  bottom,  and  dispersed,  and  Ijent  or  broke 
The  lithe  reluctant  bonghs  to  tear  away 
Their  tawny  clusters,  crying  to  each  other 
And  calling,  here  and  there,  about  the  wood. 

But  Philip  sitting  at  her  side  forgot 
Jler  presence,  and  rcmember'd  one  dark  hour 
Here  in  this  wood,  when  like  a  wounded  life 
He  crept  into  the  shadow :  at  last  he  said. 
Lifting  his  honest  forehead,  "  Linten,  Annie, 
How  merry  they  are  down  yonder  in  the  wood." 
•*  Tired,  Annie  T"  for  she  did  not  speak  a  word. 
"Tired?"  but  her  face  had  fall'n  upon  her  hands; 
At  which,  as  with  a  kind  of  anger  In  him, 
"The  ship  was  lost,"  he  said,  "the  ship  was  lost! 
No  more  of  that !  why  should  you  kill  yonrself 
And  make  them  orphans  quite?"     And  Annie  said, 
"  I  thought  not  of  it :  but— I  know  not  why— 
Their  voices  make  me  feel  bo  solitary." 

Then  Philip  coming  somewhat  closer  spoke. 
"Annie,  there  Is  a  thing  upon  my  mind, 
And  It  has  been  upon  my  mind  so  long. 
That  tho'  I  know  not  when  it  first  came  there, 
I  know  that  it  will  ont  at  last.    O  Annie, 
It  is  beyond  all  hope,  against  all  chance. 
That  he  who  left  yon  ten  long  years  ago 
Should  still  be  living ;  well  then— let  me  speak : 
I  grieve  to  see  you  poor  and  wanting  help: 
I  cannot  help  yon  as  I  wish  to  do 
I'nless— they  say  that  women  are  so  quick- 
Perhaps  yon  know  what  I  would  have  yon  know— 
I  wish  you  for  my  wife.    I  fain  would  prove 
A  father  to  your  children:  I  do  think 
They  love  me  as  a  father :  I  am  sure 
That  I  love  them  as  if  they  were  mine  own ; 
And  I  believe,  if  you  were  fast  my  wite. 
That  after  all  these  sad  uncertain  j'ears, 
We  might  be  still  as  happy  as  God  grants 
To  any  of  His  creatures.    Think  upon  it: 
For  I  am  well-to-do— no  kin,  no  care. 
No  burthen,  save  my  care  for  you  and  yours; 
And  we  have  known  each  other  all  our  lives. 
And  I  have  loved  yon  longer  than  you  know." 

Then  answer'd  Annie ;  tenderly  she  spoke : 
"You  have  been  as  God's  good  angel  in  our  honse. 
God  bless  you  for  it,  God  reward  yon  for  it, 
Philip,  with  something  happier  than  myself. 
Can  one  love  twice  ?  can  you  be  ever  loved 
As  Enoch  was?  what  is  it  that  yon  ask?" 
'•I  am  content,"  he  answer'd,  "to  he  loved 
A  little  after  Enoch."    "  O,"  she  cried. 
Scared  as  it  were,  "  dear  Philip,  wait  a  while : 
If  Enoch  comes— but  Enoch  will  not  come — 
Yet  wait  a  year,  a  year  is  not  so  long: 
Surely  I  shall  be  wiser  in  a  year: 

0  wait  a  little  1"    Philip  sadly  said, 
''Annie,  as  I  have  waited  all  my  life 

1  well  may  wait  a  little."    "  Nay,"  she  cried, 

•'  I  am  bound  :  yon  have  my  promise — in  a  year : 
Will  you  not  bide  your  year  as  I  bide  mine?" 
And  Philip  answer'd,  "  1  vrlii  bide  my  year." 


Here  both  were  mnte,  till  Philip  glancing  np 
Beheld  the  dead  flame  of  the  fallen  day 
Pass  from  the  Danish  barrow  overhead ; 
Then  fearing  night  and  chill  for  Annie  rose, 
And  sent  his  voice  beneath  him  thro'  the  wood. 
Up  came  the  children  laden  with  their  spoU ; 
Then  all  descended  to  the  port,  and  tliere 
At  Annie's  door  be  paused  and  gave  his  hand. 
Saying  gently,  "  Annie,  when  I  spoke  to  you. 
That  was  your  hour  of  weakness.    I  was  wrong. 
I  am  always  bound  to  you,  but  yon  are  free." 
Then  Annie  weeping  answer'd,  "I  am  bound." 

She  spoke  ;  and  in  one  moment  as  it  were. 
While  yet  she  went  about  her  household  ways, 
Ev'n  as  she  dwelt  upon  his  latest  words. 
That  he  had  loved  her  longer  than  she  knew. 
That  autumn  into  autumn  flash 'd  again. 
And  there  he  stood  ouce  more  before  her  face. 
Claiming  her  promise.    "Is  it  a  year?"  she  ask'd. 
"Yes,  if  the  nuts,"  he  said,  "be  ripe  again: 
Come  out  and  see."    But  she — she  put  him  off— 
So  much  to  look  to — such  a  change — a  month- 
Give  her  a  month— she  knew  that  she  was  bound— 
A  month- no  more.    Then  Philip  with  his  eyes 
Fall  of  that  lifeluug  hunger,  and  his  voice 
Shaking  a  liule  like  a  dmnkard's  hand, 
"Take  your  own  time,  Annie,  take  your  own  time." 
And  Annie  conld  have  wept  for  pity  of  him ; 
And  yet  she  held  him  on  delayingly 
With  many  a  scarce-believable  excuse, 
Trying  his  truth  and  his  long-sufferance. 
Till  half- another  year  had  slipt  away. 

By  this  the  laxy  goesips  of  the  port. 
Abhorrent  of  a  calculation  croet. 
Began  to  chafe  as  at  a  personal  wrong. 
Some  thought  that  Philip  did  but  trifle  with  her ; 
Some  that  she  but  held  off  to  draw  him  on ; 
And  others  laugh'd  at  her  and  Philip  too. 
As  simple  folk  that  knew  not  their  own  minds; 
And  one.  In  whom  all  evil  fancies  clung 
Like  serpent  e^ga  together,  laughingly 
Would  hint  at  worse  in  either.    Her  own  son 
Was  silent,  tho'  he  often  look'd  his  wish ; 
But  evermore  the  daughter  prest  upon  her 
To  wed  the  man  so  dear  to  all  of  them 
And  lift  the  honsehold  out  of  poverty; 
And  Philip's  rosy  face  contracting  grew 
Careworn  and  wan ;  and  all  these  things  fell  on  her 
Sharp  as  reproach. 

At  last  one  night  it  chanced 
That  Annie  conld  not  sleep,  but  earnestly 
Pray'd  for  a  sign  "  my  Enoch,  Is  he  gone?" 
Then  compass'd  round  by  the  blind  wall  of  night 
Brook'd  not  the  expectant  terror  of  her  heart. 
Started  from  bed,  and  struck  herself  a  light. 
Then  desperately  sclied  the  holy  Book, 
Suddenly  set  it  wide  to  And  a  sign. 
Suddenly  put  her  finger  on  the  text, 
"  Under  a  palmtree."    That  was  nothing  to  her: 
No  meaning  there:   she  closed  the  book  and  slept; 
When  lo ;  her  Enoch  sitting  on  a  height, 
Under  a  palmtree,  over  him  the  Sun  : 
"  He  is  gone,"  she  thought,  "he  is  happy,  he  is  sing- 
ing 
Hosanna  in  the  highest:  yonder  shines 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness,  and  these  be  palmci 
Whereof  the  happy  people  etrowing  cried 
'Hosanna  In  the  highest !'"  Here  she  woke. 
Resolved,  sent  for  him  and  said  wildly  to  him, 
"  There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  wed." 
"Then  for  God's  sake,"  he  answer'd,   "both    our 

sakes. 
So  you  will  wed  me,  let  it  be  at  once." 

So  these  were  wed  and  merrily  rang  the  bells. 
Merrily  rang  the  belle  and  they  were  wed. 


ENOCH  ABDBK. 


187 


Bat  nerer  narrOy  bent  Annie's  heart 
A  (boUtap  MMU'd  to  fttll  be«lde  her  path, 
bhe  knew  not  whence ;  a  whUper  on  her  oitr, 
She  knew  not  vhat ;  nor  lured  Rhe  to  b«  lu.X 
Alone  at  home,  nor  ventured  out  alone. 
What  ail'd  her  then,  that  ere  ahe  enter**!,  often 
Her  band  dwelt  Hii)^>rliij;ly  on  the  latch, 
FearlnR  to  enter:  Philip  ihooght  he  knewt 
8nch  doubt«  niid  fcara  were  oommon  to  her  state, 
Being  with  child :  bnt  when  her  child  was  l>om, 
Then  her  new  child  was  as  heraelf  renew'd, 
Then  the  new  mother  came  about  her  heart. 
Then  her  good  Philip  was  her  all-in-nil, 
And  that  mymterious  Instinct  wholly  died. 

And  where  was  Enoch  t    Prosperously  saU'd 
The  ship  "  Qood  Fortune,"  tho'  at  setting  forth 
The  Biscay,  roaghly  ridging  eastward,  shook 
And  almost  overwhclm'd  her,  yet  uuvcxt 
She  sllpt  across  the  (<iimnier  of  the  world. 
Then  after  a  long  tumble  about  the  Cnpe 
And  ftequcut  {nterchauj^  of  foul  and  fair. 
She  passing  thru'  the  summer  world  again, 
the  breath  of  Heaven  came  continually 
And  sent  her  sweetly  by  the  golden  isles, 
Till  silent  in  her  oriental  haven. 

There  Enoch  traded  for  himself,  and  bought 
Quaint  monsters  for  the  market  of  those  times, 
A  gilded  dragon,  also,  for  the  babes. 

Letts  Incky  her  home-voyage :  at  first  indeed 
Thro'  many  a  fair  sea-circle,  day  by  day. 
Scarce-rocking,  her  full-bnsted  flgure-head 
Stared  o'er  the  ripple  feathering  fi-om  her  bows: 
Then  follnw'd  calms,  and  then  winds  variable, 
Then  baffling,  a  long  course  of  them :  and  last 
Storm,  such  as  drove  her  under  moonless  heavens 
Till  hard  upon  the  cry  of  "  breakers  "  came 
The  crash  of  ruin,  and  the  loss  of  all 
Bnt  Enoch  and  two  others.    Half  the  night, 
Bnoy'd  upon  floating  tackle  and  broken  spars, 
These  drifted,  stranding  on  an  isle  at  mom 
Rich,  but  the  loneliest  In  a  lonely  sea. 

No  want  was  there  of  human  snstcnance, 
Soft  fruitage,  mighty  nuU  and  nourishing  rooU; 
Nor  save  for  pity  was  It  hard  to  take 
The  helpless  life  so  wild  that  It  was  tame. 
There  In  a  seaward-gazing  mountain -gorge 
They  built,  and  thatch'd  with  leaves  of  palm,  a  hut. 
Half  hut,  hftlf.native  cavern.    So  the  three, 
Set  In  this  Kden  of  all  plenteousness. 
Dwelt  with  eternal  summer.  Ill-content. 

For  one,  the  youngest,  hardly  more  than  boy, 
Hurt  In  that  night  of  sudden  min  and  wreck, 
Lay  lingering  out  a  three-years'  death-ln-life. 
They  could  not  leave  him.    After  he  was  gone. 
The  two  remaining  found  a  fallen  stem ; 
And  Enoch's  comrade,  careless  of  himself. 
Fire-hollowing  this  In  Indian  fashion,  fell 
Snn-stricken,  and  that  other  lived  alone. 
In  those  two  deaths  he  read  Ood's  warning  "  wait." 

The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak,  the  lawns 
-\nd  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways  to  Heuven, 
The  slender  coco's  drooping  crown  of  plumes, 
The  lightning  flash  of  Insect  and  of  bird. 
The  lustre  of  the  long  convolvnlnsea 
That  coil'd  around  the  stately  stems,  and  ran 
Ev'n  to  the  limit  of  the  land,  the  glows 
And  glories  of  the  broad  belt  of  the  world. 
All  these  he  saw;  bnt  what  he  fain  had  seen 
He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human  face. 
Nor  ever  hear  a  kindly  voice,  bnt  heard 
The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean-fowl. 
The  league-long  roller  thnndering  on  the  reef, 


The  moving  whisper  of  hnge  treee  that  branch'd 

And  bloaeom'd  In  the  tenltb,  or  the  sweep 

Of  some  preclpiums  rivulet  to  the  wnve, 

As  down  the  shore  be  nngtA,  or  all  day  long 

.Sat  <i(t«n  in  the  aeaward*gastiic  fft^ 

A  shipwreck'd  sailor,  waiting  for  a  aall  i 

No  sail  Arom  day  to  day,  bnt  every  day 

The  snnrlee  l>roken  into  scarlet  shafts 

Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  precipices; 

The  blane  upon  the  waters  to  the  east ; 

The  blase  upon  bla  island  overhead ; 

The  blase  npon  the  waters  to  the  west ; 

Then  the  great  stars   that  globed  themselves  in 

Heaven, 
The  hollower-bellowing  ocean,  and  again 
The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise— bnt  no  sail. 

There,  often  as  be  watch'd  or  aeem'd  to  watch. 
So  still,  the  golden  lizard  on  him  paused, 
.\  phantom  made  of  many  phantoms  moved 
Be^re  him  haunting  him,  or  ho  himself 
Moved  hannting  people,  things  and  plaoea,  known 
Far  in  a  darker  isle  beyond  the  line; 
The  babes,  their  babble,  Annie,  the  small  house. 
The  climbing  street,  the  mill,  the  leafy  Inucs, 
The  peacock-yewtree  aud  the  lonely  Hall, 
The  horse  he  drove,  the  boat  ho  sold,  the  chill 
November  dawns  and  dewy-glooming  downs, 
The  gentle  shower,  the  smell  of  dying  leaves. 
And  the  low  moan  of  leaden-color'd  seas. 

Once  likewise,  in  the  ringing  of  his  eara, 
Tho'  faintly,  merrily— far  and  far  away — 
He  heard  the  pealing  of  his  parish  bells ; 
Then,  tho'  he  knew  not  wherefore,  started  up 
Shuddering,  and  when  the  beauteous  hateful  l»!e 
Return'd  upon  him,  had  not  his  poor  heart 
Spoken  with  That,  which  being  everywhere 
Lets  none,  who  speaks  with  Ilim,  seem  all  alone, 
Surely  the  man  had  died  of  solitude. 

Thns  over  Enoch's  early-silvering  head 
The  sunny  and  rainy  seasons  came  and  went 
Year  after,  year.    His  hopes  to  see  his  own, 
And  pace  the  sacred  old  familiar  fields. 
Not  yet  had  perish'd,  when  his  lonely  doom 
Came  suddenly  to  an  end.    Another  ship 
(She  wanted  water)  blown  by  baffling  winds 
Like  the  Good  Fortune,  from  her  destined  course, 
Stay'd  by  this  Isle,  not  knowing  where  she  lay ; 
For  since  the  mate  had  seen  at  early  dawn 
Across  a  break  on  the  mist-wreathen  isle 
The  silent  water  slipping  from  the  hills. 
They  sent  a  crew  that  landing  burst  away 
In  search  of  stream  or  fount,  and  flll'd  the  shores 
With  clamor.    Downward  from  his  mountain  gorge 
Stept  the  long-haired  long-bearded  solitary, 
Brown,  looking  hardly  human,  strangely  clad, 
Muttering  and  mumbling,  idiotlike  it  seem'd. 
With  Inarticulate  rage,  and  making  signs 
They  knew  not  what :  and  yet  he  led  the  way 
To  where  the  rivulets  of  sweet  water  ran ; 
And  ever  as  he  mingled  with  the  crew, 
And  heard  them  talking,  his  loug-bounden  tongue 
Was  loosen'd,  till  he  made  them  understand ; 
Whom,  when  their  casks  were  flll'd  they  took  aboard 
And  there  the  tale  he  utlcr'd  brokenly. 
Scarce  credited  at  first  but  more  and  more. 
Amazed  and  melted  all  who  llsten'd  to  it: 
And  clothes  they  gave  him  and  tree  passage  borne - 
But  oft  he  work'd  among  the  rest  and  shook 
His  isolation  from  him.    None  of  these 
Came  from  his  county,  or  could  answer  him. 
If  qnestion'd,  anght  of  wliat  he  cared  to  know. 
And  dull  the  voyage  was  with  long  delays. 
The  vessel  scarce  sea-worthy ;  bnt  evermore 
His  fancy  fled  before  the  lazy  wind 
Retoming,  till  beneath  a  clouded  moon 


188 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


He  like  a  lover  down  thro'  all  his  blood 
Drew  In  the  dewy  meadowy  morning-breath 
Of  England,  blown  across  her  ghostly  wall : 
And  that  same  morning  officers  and  men 
Levied  a  kindly  tax  upon  themselves, 
Pitying  the  lonely  man,  and  gave  him  it: 
Then  moving  up  the  coast  they  landed  him, 
Ev'n  in  that  harbor  whence  he  sail'd  before. 

There  Enoch  spoke  no  word  to  any  one, 
But  homeward,— home,— what  home  T  had  he  a  home  f 
His  homo  he  walk'd.     Bright  was  that  afternoon, 
Sunny  but  chill;  till  drawn  thro'  either  chasm. 
Where  either  haven  open'd  on  the  deeps, 
Boll'd  a  sea-haze  and  whelm'd  the  world  in  gray : 
Cut  off  the  length  of  highway  on  before. 
And  left  but  narrow  breadth  to  left  and  right 
Of  wither'd  holt  or  tilth  or  pasturage. 
On  the  nigh-naked  tree  the  Robin  piped 
Disconsolate,  and  thro'  the  dripping  haze 
The  dead  weight  of  the  dead  leaf  bore  it  down;. 
Tiiicker  the  drizzle  grew,  deeper  the  gloom ; 
Last,  as  it  seem'd,  a  great  mist-blotted  light 
Flared  on  him,  and  he  came  upon  the  place. 

Then  down  the  long  street  having  slowly  stolen. 
His  heart  foreshadowing  all  calamity. 
His  eyes  upon  the  stones,  he  reach'd  the  home 
Where  Annie  lived  and  loved  him,  and  his  babes 
In  those  far-off  seven  happy  years  were  bom ; 
But  finding  neither  light  nor  murmur  there 
(A  bill  of  sale  gleam'd  thro'  the  drizzle)  crept 
Still  downward  thinking  "  dead  or  dead  to  me !" 

Down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  wharf  he  went, 
Seeking  a  tavern  which  of  old  he  knew, 
A  front  of  timber-crost  antiquity. 
So  propt,  worm-eaten,  ruinously  old. 
He  thought  it  must  have  gone;  but  he  was  gone 
Who  kept  it:  and  his  widow,  Miriam  Lane, 
With  daily-dwindling  profits  held  the  house ; 
A  haunt  of  brawling  seamen  once,  but  now 
Stiller,  with  yet  a  bed  for  wandering  men. 
There  Enoch  rested  silent  many  days. 

Bat  Miriam  Lane  was  good  and  garmloos, 
Nor  let  him  be,  bnt  often  breaking  in, 
Told  him,  with  other  annals  of  the  port, 
Not  knowing— Enoch  was  so  brown,  so  bow'd, 
80  broken— all  the  story  of  bis  house. 
His  baby's  death,  her  growing  poverty, 
How  Philip  put  her  little  ones  to  school. 
And  kept  them  in  it,  his  long  wooing  her. 
Her  slow  consent,  and  marriage,  and  the  birth 
Of  Philip's  child:  and  o'er  his  countenance 
No  shadow  past,  nor  motion ;  any  one, 
Kegardiug,  well  had  deem'd  he  felt  the  tale 
Less  than  the  teller:  only  when  she  closed, 
"  Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and  lost," 
He,  shaking  his  gray  head  pathetically, 
Repeated  muttering  "  Cast  away  and  lost ;" 
Again  in  deeper  inward  whispers  "  Lost !" 

Bnt  Enoch  yeam'd  to  see  her  face  again ; 
"  If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  face  again 
And  know  that  she  is  happy."    So  the  thought 
Haunted  and  harass'd  him,  and  drove  him  forth 
At  evening  when  the  dull  November  day 
Was  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the  hill. 
There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below: 
There  did  a  thousand  memories  roll  upon  him, 
Unspeakable  for  sadness.    By  and  by 
The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light, 
Far-blazing  from  the  rear  of  Philip's  house. 
Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  allures 
The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly  strikes 
Against  it,  and  beats  oat  his  weary  life. 


For  Philip's  dwelling  fronted  on  the  street. 
The  latest  honse  to  landward ;  but  behind. 
With  one  small  gate  that  open'd  on  the  waste, 
Flourish'd  a  little  garden  square  and  wall'd: 
And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 
A  yewtree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a  walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a  walk  divided  it : 
But  Enoch  shunn'd  the  middle  walk  and  stole 
Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew ;  and  thence 
That  which  he  better  might  have  ebunn'd,  if  giiefs 
Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch  saw. 

For  cnps  and  silver  on  the  bnrnish'd  board 
Sparkled  and  shone ;  so  genial  was  the  hearth ; 
And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times, 
Stont,  rosy,  with  his  babe  across  his  knees ; 
And  o'er  her  second  father  stoopt  a  girl, 
A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 
Fair-hair'd  and  tall,  and  from  her  lifted  hand 
Dangled  a  length  of  ribbon  and  a  ring 
To  tempt  the  babe,  who  rear'd  his  creasy  arms. 
Caught  at  and  ever  miss'd  it,  and  they  laugh'd : 
And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
The  mother  glancing  often  toward  her  babe. 
Bat  turning  now  and  then  to  speak  with  him. 
Her  son,  who  stood  beside  her  tall  and  strong, 
And  saying  that  which  pleased  him,  for  be  smiled. 

Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  life  beheld 
Ills  wife  bis  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the  babe 
Hers,  yet  not  his,  upon  the  father's  knee. 
And  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  the  happineat, 
And  his  own  children  tall  and  beautiful. 
And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his  i>lacc. 
Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children's  love- 
Then  be,  tbo'  Miriam  Lane  had  told  him  all, 
Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than  things  heard, 
Stagger'd  and  shook,  holding  the  branch,  and  feur'd 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible  cry, 
Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast  of  doom, 
Wonid  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the  hearth. 

He  therefore  turning  softly  like  a  thief, 
Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  grate  underfoot. 
And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall, 
Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and  be  found. 
Crept  to  the  gate,  and  open'd  it,  and  closed. 
As  lightly  as  a  sick  man's  chamber-door. 
Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the  waste. 

And  there  he  would  have  knelt,  but  that  his  knees 
Were  feeble,  so  that  falling  prone  he  dng 
His  fingers  into  the  wet  earth,  and  pray'd. 

"Too  hard  to  bear!  why  did  they  take  me  thence? 
O  Qod  Almighty,  blessed  Saviour,  Thou 
That  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely  isle. 
Uphold  me.  Father,  in  my  loneliness 
A  little  longer!  aid  me,  give  me  strength 
Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 
Help  me  not  to  break  in  npon  her  pea(e. 
My  children  too!  must  I  not  speak  to  these? 
They  know  me  not    I  should  betray  myseit 
Never:  no  father's  kiss  for  me,— the  girl 
So  like  her  mother,  and  the  boy,  my  son." 

There  speech  and  thought  and  natnre  fail'd  a  little. 
And  he  lay  tranced :  but  when  he  rose  and  paced 
Back  toward  his  solitary  home  again. 
All  down  the  long  and  narrow  street  he  went 
Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain. 
As  tho'  it  were  the  burthen  of  a  song, 
"  Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know." 

He  was  not  all  unhappy.    His  resolve 
Upbore  him,  and  firm  faith,  and  evermore 
Prayer  from  a  living  source  within  the  will. 


ENOCH  ARDEK. 


189 


And  bMtiDK  op  thro*  all  Uie  bitler  world. 
Like  fouuUin*  of  twMt  water  In  the  ma, 
Kopt  htm  a  living  soul.    "This  mlller'a  wtDt," 
He  Mid  to  Miriam,  "that  yoa  told  me  of, 
Ilaa  she  no  fear  that  tier  llrat  hiuband  UveaT" 
"  Ay,  ay,  poor  »oul,"  imid  Miriam,  "  fear  enow  I 
If  yuo  could  tell  her  you  had  aeen  him  dead, 
Why,  that  would  be  her  comfbrt :"  and  he  thought, 
"After  the  Lord  has  call'd  me  abe  shall  know, 
I  wait  His  Umr,"  aud  Enoch  aet  himseir, 
Scorning  an  alms,  to  work  whereby  to  live. 
Almost  to  all  things  could  be  turn  his  hand. 
Cooper  he  was  and  carpenter,  aud  wruuKht 
To  make  the  boatmen  flt>hint;-neta,  or  beip'd 
At  ladiuR  and  unlmlhi);  the  (all  barks. 
That  brought  the  otinted  cumnicrce  of  tboafl  days' 
Thus  eam'd  a  scanty  living  fur  himself: 
Yet  since  he  did  but  labor  for  hioiself, 
Work  withdut  hope,  there  was  not  life  In  it 
Whereby  the  man  could  live;  and  as  the  year 
Roll'd  it«clf  round  again  to  meet  the  day 
When  Enoch  had  return'd,  a  languor  came 
Upon  him,  gentle  sickness,  gradually 
Weakening  the  man,  till  he  could  do  no  more, 
But  kopt  the  houxe,  his  chair,  aud  last  his  bed. 
And  Enoch  bore  his  weakness  cheerAilly. 
For  sure  no  gladlier  does  the  stranded  wreck 
See  thro'  the  gray  skirts  of  a  lidiuK  squall 
The  boat  that  bears  the  boi>c  of  life  approach 
To  save  the  life  despair'd  of,  than  he  Haw 
De«th  dawning  on  him,  and  the  cloiic  uf  all. 

For  thro'  that  dawning  gleam'd  a  kindlier  hope 
On  Enoch  thinking,  "After  I  am  gone, 
Then  may  she  learn  I  loved  her  to  the  last." 
He  call'd  aloud  for  Miriam  Lane  and  said, 
"  Woman,  I  have  a  secret— only  swear, 
Before  I  tell  you— swear  upon  the  book 
Not  to  reveal  it,  till  yon  see  me  dead." 
" Dead," damor'd  the  good  woman,  "hear  him  talk  ! 
I  warrant,  man,  that  we  shall  bring  you  round." 
"Swear,"  added  Enoch  sternly,  "on  the  book." 
And  on  the  book,  balf-frighted,  Miriam  swore. 
Then  Enoch  rolling  his  gray  eyes  upon  her, 
"Did  you  know  Enoch  Arden  of  this  town?" 
"Know  himf"  she  said,  "I  knew  him  far  away. 
Ay,  ay,  I  mind  him  coming  down  the  street : 
Held  his  head  high,  and  cared  for  no  man,  he." 
Slowly  and  sadly  Enoch  answer'd  her; 
"  His  head  is  low,  and  no  man  cares  for  him. 
I  think  I  have  not  three  days  more  to  live; 
I  am  the  man."    At  which  the  woman  gave 
A  half-incredulous,  half-hysterical  cry. 
"  Yon  Arden,  yon  I  nay,— fure  he  was  a  foot 
Higher  than  you  be."    Enoch  said  again, 
"My  God  has  bow'd  me  down  to  what  I  am; 
My  grief  and  solitude  have  broken  me ; 
Nevertheless,  know  you  that  I  am  he 
Who    married  —  but    that    name    baa    twice    been 

changed — 
I  married  her  who  married  Philip  Ray. 


Bit,  listen.'*    Then  be  told  her  of  hb  voyage. 
His  wreck,  his  lonely  life,  his  coming  back, 
Uis  gasing  in  on  Annie,  his  resolve. 
And  how  ho  kept  it    As  the  woman  heard. 
Fast  (low'd  the  current  of  her  eeey  teen, 
While  in  her  heart  she  yeam'd  ineesMUiUjr 
To  rush  abroad  all  round  the  little  haveo, 
Proclaiming  Enoch  Arden  and  his  woes; 
But  awed  and  promlse-bounden  abe  fbrbiore. 
Saying  only,  "  See  your  bairns  before  yon  go  I 
Eh,  let  me  fetch  'em,  Arden,"  and  arose 
Eager  to  bring  them  down,  for  Enoch  hung 
A  moment  on  her  words,  but  then  replied: 

"Woman,  disturb  me  not  now  at  the  last, 
But  let  mc  hold  my  purpose  till  I  die. 
Sit  down  again;  mark  mo  and  understand. 
While  I  hare  power  to  speak.    I  charge  you  now. 
When  you  shall  see  her,  tell  her  that  I  died 
Blessing  her,  praying  for  her,  loving  her : 
Save  for  the  bar  between  us,  loving  her 
As  when  she  laid  her  head  beside  my  own. 
And  tell  my  daughter  Annie,  whom  I  saw 
So  like  her  mother,  that  my  latest  breath 
Was  spent  in  blessing  her  and  praying  for  her. 
Aud  tell  my  son  that  I  died  blessing  him. 
And  say  to  Philip  that  I  blest  him  too; 
He  never  meant  us  anything  but  good. 
But  if  my  children  care  to  see  me  dead, 
Who  hardly  knew  mc  living,  let  them  come, 
I  am  their  father;  but  she  must  not  come. 
For  my  dead  face  would  vex  her  after-life. 
And  now  there  is  but  one  of  all  my  blood, 
WIjo  will  embrace  mc  in  the  world-to-be: 
This  hair  is  hi^:  she  cut  it  off  and  gave  it. 
And  I  have  l>orne  it  with  me  all  these  years, 
And  thought  to  bear  it  with  me  to  my  grave; 
But  now  my  mind  is  changed,  for  I  shall  see  him. 
My  babe  in  bliss:  wherefore  when  I  am  gone, 
Take,  give  her  this,  for  it  may  comfort  her; 
It  will  moreover  be  a  token  to  her, 
That  I  am  he." 

He  ceased;  and  Miriam  Lane 
Made  such  a  voluble  answer  promising  all. 
That  once  again  he  roll'd  bis  eyes  upon  her 
Repeating  all  he  wish'd,  and  once  again 
She  promised. 

Then  the  third  night  after  this. 
While  Enoch  slumber'd  motionless  and  pale. 
And  Miriam  watch'd  and  dozed  at  intervals. 
There  came  so  lond  a  calling  of  the  sea. 
That  all  the  houses  in  the  haven  rang. 
He  woke,  he  rose,  he  spread  his  arms  abroad 
Crying  with  a  loud  voice  "  A  sail  I  a  sail ! 
I  am  saved ;"  and  so  fell  back  and  spoke  no  more. 

So  past  the  strong  heroic  soul  away. 
And  when  they  buried  him  the  little  port  ' 
Had  seldom  seen  a  costlier  funeraL 


too 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


ADDITIONAL    POEMS 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 
1708. 
DrrsT  are  our  fi-ames;  and,  gilded  dnst,  our  pride 
Looks  only  for  a  moment  whole  and  sound; 
Like  that  long-buried  body  of  the  king, 
Found  lying  with  his  urns  and  ornaments, 
Which  at  a  touch  of  light,  an  air  of  heaveu, 
Slipt  into  ashes  and  was  found  no  more. 

Here  Is  a  story  which  in  rougher  shape 
Came  from  a  grizzled  cripple,  whom  I  saw 
Sunning  himself  in  a  waete  field  alone — 
Old,  and  a  mine  of  memories— who  had  served, 
Long  since,  a  bygone  Rector  of  the  placn. 
And  been  himself  a  part  of  what  be  told. 

Sir  Atlmeb  Atlmks,  that  almighty  man, 
The  county  Ood— in  whose  capacious  hall, 
Hung  with  a  hundred  shields,  the  fSimiiy  tree 
Sprang  from  the  midriff  of  a  prostrate  king— 
Whose  blazing  wyvern  weaihcrcock'd  the  spire, 
Stood  from  his  walls  and  wing'd  his  entry-gates 
And  swang  besides  on  many  a  windy  sign — 
Whose  eyes  flrom  under  a  pyramidal  head 
Siiw  from  his  windows  nothing  save  his  own— 
What  lovelier  of  his  owu  had  he  than  her. 
Ills  only  child,  his  Edith,  whom  he  loved 
As  heiress  and  not  heir  regretfully  f 
Tint  "he  that  marries  her  marries  her  name" 
This  flat  somewhat  soothed  himself  and  wife. 
Ills  wife  a  faded  beauty  of  the  Baths, 
Insipid  as  the  queen  upon  a  card ; 
Her  all  of  thought  and  bearing  hardly  mure 
Thau  his  owu  shadow  in  a  sickly  sun. 

A  land  of  hops  and  poppy-mingled  com. 
Little  about  it  xtirring  save  a  brook! 
A  sleepy  land  where  under  the  same  wheel 
The  same  old  rut  would  deepen  year  by  year; 
Where  nImoKt  all  the  village  had  one  name; 
Where  Aylmer  followed  Aylmcr  at  the  Hall 
And  AveriU  Averill  at  the  Kectory 
Thrice  over:  so  that  Rectory  and  Hall, 
Bound  in  an  immemorial  intimacy. 
Were  open  to  each  other:  tho'  to  dream 
That  Love  could  bind  them  closer  well  had  made 
The  hoar  hair  of  the  Baronet  bristle  up 
With  horror,  worse  than  had  he  heard  his  priest 
Preach  an  inverted  scripture,  sons  of  men 
Daughters  of  God ;  so  sleepy  was  the  laud. 

And  might  not  Averill,  had  he  will'd  it  so. 
Somewhere  beneath  his  own  low  range  of  rooCB, 
Have  also  set  his  many-shielded  tree? 
There  was  an  Aylmer-Averlll  marriage  once. 
When  the  red  rose  was  redder  than  itself, 
And  York's  white  rose  as  red  as  Lancaster's, 
With  wounded  peace  which  each  had  prick'd  to 

death. 
"  Not  proven,"  Averill  said,  or  laughingly, 
"Some  ot^er  race  of  Averills "— prov'n  or  no. 
What  cared  he  ?  what,  if  other  or  the  same  f 
He  lean'd  not  on  his  fathers  but  himself. 
Bat  Leolin,  his  brother,  living  oft 


With  Averill,  and  a  year  or  two  before 
Call'd  to  the  bar,  but  ever  call'd  away 
By  one  low  voice  to  one  dear  neighborhood. 
Would  often,  in  his  walks  with  Edith,  chiini 
A  distant  kinship  to  the  gracious  blood 
That  shook  the  heart  of  Edith  bearing  him. 

Sanguine  he  was :  a  but  less  vivid  hue 
Than  of  that  islet  in  the  chestnut-bloom 
Flamed  in  his  cheek ;  and  eager  eyes,  that  still 
Took  Joyful  note  of  all  things  joyful,  l)eam'd 
Beneath  a  manetike  mass  of  rolling  gold, 
Their  best  and  brightest,  when  they  dwelt  on  hers, 
Edith,  whose  pensive  beauty,  perfect  else, 
But  subject  to  the  season  or  the  mood. 
Shone  like  a  mystic  star  between  the  less 
And  greater  glory  varying  to  and  fro. 
We  know  not  wherefore :  bounteously  made. 
And  yet  so  finely,  that  a  troublous  touch 
Thinn'd,  or  would  seem  to  thin  her  in  a  day, 
A  Joyona  to  dilate,  as  toward  the  light. 
.\nd  these  bad  been  together  from  the  first 
Leoliu's  first  nurse  was,  five  years  after,  hers : 
So  much  the  boy  foreran  :  but  when  his  date 
Doubled  her  own,  for  want  of  playmates,  be 
(Since  .\veri11  was  a  decade  and  a  half 
His  elder,  and  their  parents  underground) 
Had  tost  his  hall  and  flown  his  kite,  and  roll'd 
His  boop  to  pleasure  Edith,  with  ber  dipt 
Against  the  msh  of  the  air  in  the  prone  swing, 
Made  bloasom-ball  or  daisy-chain,  arranged 
Her  garden,  sow'd  her  name  and  kept  it  green 
In  living  letters,  told  her  fairy-tales, 
Show'd  ber  the  fairy  footings  on  the  graaa, 
The  little  dells  of  cowslip,  fairy  palms, 
The  petty  marcstail  forest,  fairy  pines. 
Or  from  the  tiny  pitted  target  blew 
What  look'd  a  flight  of  fairy  arrows  aim'd 
All  at  one  mark,  all  bitting:  make-belieVes 
For  Edith  and  himself:  or  else  he  forged. 
But  that  was  later,  boyish  histories 
Of  battle,  bold  adventure,  dungeon,  wreck. 
Flights,  terrors,  sudden  rescues,  and  true  love 
Crown'd  after  trial;  sketches  rude  and  faint. 
But  where  a  passion  yet  unborn  perhaps 
Lay  hidden  as  the  music  of  the  moon 
Sleeps  in  the  plain  eggs  of  the  nightingale. 
And  thus  together,  save  for  college-limes 
Or  Temple-eaten  terms,  a  couple,  (air 
As  ever  painter  painted,  poet  sang, 
Or  Heav'n  in  lavish  bounty  moulded,  grew. 
And  more  and  more,  the  maiden  woman-grown. 
He  wasted  hours  with  Averill ;  there,  when  first 
The  tented  winter-field  was  broken  up 
Into  that  phalanx  of  the  summer  spears 
That  soon  should  wear  the  garland ;  there  again 
When  burr  and  bine  were  gather'd;  lastly  there 
At  Christmas ;  ever  welcome  at  the  Hall, 
On  whose  dull  sameness  his  full  tide  of  youth 
Broke  with  a  phosphorescence  cheering  even 
My  lady ;  and  the  Baronet  yet  had  laid 
No  bar  between  them:  dull  and  self-involved. 
Tall  and  erect,  but  bending  from  his  height 
With  half-allowing  smiles  for  all  the  world. 
And  mighty  courteous  in  the  main— his  pride 


AYLMKKS  FIKLD. 


101 


L«y  deeper  ttiui  to  wear  it  M  his  rtng— 

He,  like  an  Ajrimer  Id  hU  Aylmcrlum, 

Would  care  no  more  tor  Loollu's  walklDg  with  her 

Thau  for  hia  old  NcwfouiullnDd'a,  wheu  they  rau 

To  looee  him  at  Ibu  «tablt<i<,  for  he  ruae 

Twofboted  at  the  liinlt  of  bin  chain, 

Roaring  to  make  a  third:  and  how  »honld  Lore, 

Whom  the  eroaa-ilghtnings  of  ft>ur  chmicc-met  eyes 

Flitxh  Into  llery  life  flrom  nothluK,  follow 

Surli  dear  riiiiilUitritlee  of  dawn  f 

Mvldoni,  but  wheu  he  doea,  Master  of  aU. 

80  these  yonng  hearts  not  knowltif;  that  theyloTcd, 
Not  she  at  leaat,  nor  con»cloua  of  a  bar 
Between  tbcm,  nor  by  pliKbt  or  broken  ring 
Bound,  but  au  imnicinorial  iutimacjr, 
Wander'd  at  will,  but  oft  accompanied 
By  Averill :  his,  a  brother's  love,  that  bnng 
With  wini^  of  brooding  shelter  o'er  her  peace, 
Mlsht  have  bccu  other,  save  for  Lcoliu's— 
Who  knows  1  but  so  they  wandcrd,  hour  by  hour 
Qalbcr'd  the  blossom  that  rcbloom'd,  and  drauk 
The  magic  cup  that  flll'd  ilscir  anew. 

A  whisper  half  reveal'd  her  to  herself. 
For  out  beyond  her  lodges,  where  the  brook 
Vocal,  with  here  and  there  a  silence,  ran 
By  sallowy  rims,  aroee  the  laborers'  homes, 
A  (hiqnent  haunt  of  Edith,  on  low  knolls 
That  dinipliu;;  died  into  each  other,  huts 
At  random  scatter'd,  each  a  ucst  iu  bloom. 
Iler  art,  her  hand,  her  counsel  all  had  wrought 
About  them :  here  was  ouc  that,  summer-blanch'd. 
Was  parcel-bearded  with  the  traveller's-joy 
In  Autumn,  parcel  Ivy-clad ;  and  here 
The  warm-blue  breathings  of  a  hidden  hearth 
Broke  (W>m  a  bower  of  vine  and  honeysuckle : 
One  look'd  all  rosetree,  and  another  wore 
A  close-set  robe  of  jasmine  sown  with  stars : 
This  had  a  rosy  sea  of  gillyflowers 
About  it:  this  a  milky-way  on  earth, 
Like  visions  in  the  Northern  dreamer's  heavens, 
A  lily-avenne  climbing  to  the  doors: 
One,  almost  to  the  martin-hnunted  eaves 
A  summer  bnrlal  deep  in  hollyhocks; 
Each,  its  own  charm:  and  Edith's  everywhere; 
And  Edith  ever  visitant  with  him. 
He  but  less  loved  than  Edith,  of  her  poor: 
For  she — so  lowly-lovely  and  so  loving, 
Queenly  responsive  when  the  loyal  hand 
Rose  n-om  the  clay  it  work'd  in  as  she  past, 
Not  sowing  hedgerow  texts  and  passing  by, 
Nor  dealing  goodly  counsel  from  a  height 
That  makes  the  lowest  hate  it,  but  a  voice 
Of  comfort  and  an  open  hand  of  help, 
A  splendid  presence  flattering  the  poor  roofs 
Revered  as  theirs,  but  kindlier  than  themselves 
To  ailing  wife  or  wailing  infancy 
Or  old'bcdridden  palsy,— was  adored: 
He,  loved  for  her  and  for  himself.    A  grasp 
Having  the  warmth  and  muscle  of  the  bcnrt, 
A  childly  way  with  children,  and  a  laugh 
Ringing  like  proven  golden  coinage  tnie, 
Were  no  false  passport  to  that  easy  realm, 
Where  once  with  Leolin  at  her  side  the  girl. 
Nursing  a  child,  and  turning  to  the  warmth 
The  tender  pink  flve-beaded  baby-soles. 
Heard  the  good  mother  softly  whisper  "Bless, 
God  bless  'em ;  marriages  are  made  in  Heaven." 

A  flash  of  semi-Jealonsy  dear'd  it  to  her. 
My  Lady's  Indian  kinsman  unannounced 
With  half  a  score  of  swarthy  faces  came. 
His  own,  tho'  keen  and  bold  and  soldierly, 
Sear'i  by  the  close  ecliptic,  was  not  fair; 
Fairer  his  talk,  a  tongue  that  mied  the  hour, 
Tho'  seeming  boaatfUl :  so  when  flrst  he  dash'd 
into  the  chronicle  of  a  deedfnl  day, 


Sir  Aylmwr  half  forgot  his  laiy  smlls 

Of  patron  "0«mmI  !  my  lady's  kinsman  !  go«Hl  1" 

My  lady  with  her  liiigcm  inlerlock'd, 

.\ud  rotatory  thumbs  on  silken  kneea, 

Call'd  all  her  vital  spiriu  Into  «Mta  Mr 

To  listen :  unawares  they  flitted  olt. 

Busying  themselves  about  the  flow«nige 

Thkt  stood  ttom  out  a  stiff  brocad*  tn  which, 

The  meteor  of  a  splendid  season,  she. 

Once  with  this  kinsman,  ah  so  long  ago. 

Slept  thro'  the  sutely  minuet  of  those  days: 

But  Sdith's  eager  (kncy  harried  with  him 

Snatch'd  thro'  the  perilous  passes  of  his  life : 

Till  Leolin  ever  watchfhl  of  her  eye 

Hated  him  with  a  momentary  hate. 

Wire-hunting,  as  the  rumor  ran,  was  he: 

I  know  not,  Ibr  he  spoke  not,  only  shower'd 

His  oriental  gills  on  every  one 

And  most  on  Edith :  like  a  storm  be  came. 

And  shook  tho  house,  and  like  a  storm  he  wenU 

Among  the  gifts  he  left  her  (possibly 
Be  flow'd  and  ebbd  uncertain,  to  return 
When  others  had  bccu  tested)  there  was  one, 
A  dagger,  iu  rich  sheath  with  Jewels  on  it 
Sprinkled  about  In  gold  that  branch'd  itself 
Fine  as  ice-ferns  on  January  panes 
Made  by  a  breatlu    I  know  not  whence  at  flrst. 
Nor  of  what  race,  the  work :  but  as  he  told 
The  story,  storming  a  hill-fort  of  thieves 
He  got  it;  for  their  captain  after  flght. 
His  comrades  having  fought  their  last  below. 
Was  climbing  up  tho  valley :  at  whom  he  shot ; 
Down  from  the  beetling  crag  to  which  he  clung 
Tumbled  the  tawny  rascal  at  his  feet. 
This  dagger  with  him,  which  when  now  admired 
By  Edith  whom  his  pleasure  was  to  please, 
At  once  the  costly  Sahib  yielded  to  her. 

And  Leolin,  coming  after  he  was  gone. 
Tost  over  all  her  presents  petulantly: 
And  when  she  show'd  the  wealthy  scabbard,  saying 
"  Look  what  a  lovely  piece  of  workmanship !" 
Slight  was  his  answer  "Well— I  care  not  for  it:" 
Then  playing  with  the  blade  he  prick'd  his  band, 
"A  gracious  gift  to  give  a  lady,  this '." 
"But  would  it  be  more  gracious,"  ask'd  the  glil, 
"Were  I  to  give  this  gift  of  his  to  one 
That  is  no  lady  T"    "  Gracious  ?    No,"  said  he. 
"Mef- but  I  cared  not  for  it    O  pardon  me, 
I  seem  to  be  nngraciousuess  itself." 
"Take  it,"  she  added  sweetly,  "tho"  his  gift; 
For  I  am  more  ungracious  ev'n  than  you, 
I  care  not  for  it  either;"  and  he  said 
"Why  then  I  love  it:"  but  Sir  Ayimer  past. 
And  neither  loved  nor  liked  the  thing  he  heard. 

The  next  day  came  a  neighbor.    Blues  and  reda 
Tliey  talk'd  of:  bines  were  sure  of  it,  he  thonghl: 
Then  of  the  latest  fox— where  started— kill'd 
In  such  a  bottom:  "Peter  had  the  brush. 
My  Peter,  flrst:"  and  did  Sir  Ayimer  know 
That  great  pock-pltten  fellow  had  been  caught? 
Then  made  his  pleasure  echo,  hand  to  hand. 
And  rolling  as  it  were  the  substance  of  it 
Between  his  palms  a  moment  up  and  down— 
"The  birds  were  warm,  the  birda  were  warm  npnn 

him: 
We  have  him  now:"  and  had  Sir  Ayimer  beard- 
Nay,  bnt  he  mnst— the  land  waa  ringing  of  it- 
This  blacksmith-border  marriage— one  they  knew— 
Raw  fk-om  the  nursery— who  could  trust  a  child? 
That  cursed  France  with  her  egalitiesl 
And  did  Sir  Ayimer  (deferentially 
With  nearing  chair  and  lower'd  accent)  think — 
For  people  talk'd— that  it  was  wholly  wise 
To  let  that  handsome  fellow  Averill  walk 
!  So  freely  with  bis  daughter?  people  talk'd— 


192 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


The  boy  might  get  a  notion  into  him ; 

The  girl  might  be  entangled  ere  she  knew. 

Sir  Aylmer  slowly  stiffening  spoke: 

"  The  girl  and  boy,  Sir,  know  their  differences !" 

"Oood,"  said    his   friend,   "bat  watch!"   and    be 

*<  enough. 
More  than  enongh,  Sir !    I  can  guard  my  own." 
They  parted,  and  Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer  watch'd.    * 

Pale,  for  on  her  the  thunders  of  the  honse 
Had  fallen  first,  was  Edith  that  same  night: 
Pale  as  the  Jephtha's  daughter,  a  rough  piece 
Of  early  rigid  color,  under  which 
Withdrawing  by  the  counter  door  to  that 
Which  Leolin  open'd,  she  cast  back  upon  him 
A  piteoDB  glance,  and  vanish'd.    He,  as  cue 
Caught  in  a  burst  of  unexpected  storm, 
And  pelted  with  outrageous  epithets. 
Turning  beheld  the  Powers  of  the  House 
On  either  side  the  hearth,  indignant ;  her. 
Cooling  her  false  cheek  with  a  feather-fan, 
Him  glaring,  by  his  own  stale  devil  spurr'd. 
And,  like  a  beast  hard-ridden,  breathing  hard. 
"Ungenerous,  dishonorable,  base. 
Presumptuous !  trusted  as  he  was  with  her,  . 
The  sole  succeeder  to  their  wealth,  their  lands, 
The  last  remaining  pillar  of  their  house, 
The  one  transmitter  of  their  ancient  name, 
Their  child."  "Our  child  1"   "OurhelreaeT  "Oura!" 

for  still. 
Like  echoes  trom  beyond  a  hollow,  came 
Her  sicklier  iteration.    Last  he  said 
"  Boy,  mark  me !  for  your  fortunes  are  to  make. 
I  swear  you  shall  not  make  them  out  of  mine. 
Mow  inasmuch  as  you  have  practised  on  her, 
Perplext  her,  made  her  half  forget  herself^ 
Swerve  f^om  her  duty  to  herself  and  tu — 
Things  in  an  Aylmer  deem'd  impossible. 
Far  as  we  track  ourselves— I  say  that  this,— 
Else  I  withdraw  favor  and  countenance 
From  yon  and  yours  forever— shall  you  da 
Sir,  when  you  see  her— but  you  shall  not  see  her— 
No,  you  shall  write,  and  not  to  her,  but  me: 
And  you  shall  say  that  having  spoken  with  me, 
And  after  look'd  into  yourself,  you  And 
That  you  meant  nothing— as  indeed  yoa  know 
That  you  meant  nothing.    Such  a  match  as  this! 
Impossible,  prodigious  !"    These  were  words. 
As  meted  by  his  measure  of  himself. 
Arguing  boundless  forbearance:  after  which, 
And  Leolin's  horror-stricken  answer,  "I 
So  foul  a  traitor  to  myself  and  her, 
Never,  O  never,"  for  about  as  long 
As  the  wiud-hover  hangs  in  balance,  pansed 
Sir  Aylmer  reddening  from  the  storm  within, 
Then  broke  all  bonds  of  courtesy,  and  crying 
"Boy,  should  I  And  you  by  my  doors  agaiu 
Hy  men  shall  lash  you  trom  them  like  a  dog: 
Hence !"  with  a  sudden  execration  drove 
The  footstool  from  before  him,  and  arose  : 
So,  stammering  "  scoundrel "  out  of  teeth  that  ground 
As  in  a  dreadful  dream,  while  Leolin  still 
Retreated  half-aghast,  the  fierce  old  man 
Pollow'd,  and  under  his  own  lintel  stood 
Storming  with  lifted  bands,  a  hoary  face 
Meet  for  the  reverence  of  the  hearth,  but  now, 
Beneath  a  pale  and  unimpassion'd  moon. 
Text  with  unworthy  madness,  and  deform'd. 

Slowly  and  conscious  of  the  rageful  eye 
That  watch'd  him,  till  he  heard  the  ponderous  door 
Close,  crashing  with  long  echoes  thro'  the  land. 
Went  Leolin;  then,  his  passions  all  in  flood 
And  masters  ol  his  motion,  ftiriously 
Down  thro'  the  bright  lawns  to  his  brother's  ran, 
And  foara'd  away  his  heart  at  Averill's  ear: 
Whom  Averill  solaced  as  he  might,  amazed : 
The  man  was  his,  had  been  his  father's  fHend : 


He  must  have  seen,  himself  had  seen  it  long ; 

He  must  have  known,  himself  had  known :  besides. 

He  never  yet  had  set  his  daughter  forth 

Here  in  the  woman-markets  of  the  west. 

Where  our  Caucasians  let  themselves  be  sold. 

Some  one,  he  thought,  had  slander'd  Leolin  to  him. 

"Brother,  for  I  have  loved  you  more  as  son 

Than  brother,  let  me  tell  you:  I  myself— 

What  is  their  pretty  saying  ?  jilted,  is  it  ? 

Jilted  I  was:  I  say  it  for  your  peace. 

Pain'd,  and,  as  bearing  in  myself  the  shame 

The  woman  should  have  borne,  humiliated, 

I  lived  for  years  a  stunted  sunless  life; 

Till  after  our  good  parents  past  away 

Watching  your  growth,  I  seem'd  again  to  grow. 

Leolin,  I  almost  sin  in  envying  you : 

The  very  whitest  lamb  in  all  my  fold 

Loves  you :  I  know  her :  the  worst  thought  she  has 

Is  whiter  even  than  her  pretty  hand: 

She  must  prove  true :  for,  brother,  where  two  fight 

The  strongest  wins,  and  truth  and  love  are  strength, 

And  you  are  happy:  let  her  pareuu  be." 

But  Leolin  cried  out  the  more  upon  them— 
Insolent,  brainless,  heartless '.  heiress,  wealth, 
Their  wealth,  their  heiress  I  wealth  enongh  was  theirs 
For  twenty  matches.    Were  ha  lord  of  this, 
Why  twenty  boys  and  girla  should  marry  on  it. 
And  forty  blest  ones  blefls  him,  and  himself 
Be  wealthy  still,  ay  wealthier.    He  believed 
This  filthy  marriage-hindering  Mammon  made 
The  harlot  of  the  cities;  nature  croat 
Wiis  mother  of  the  foul  adulteries 
That  saturate  soul  with  body.    Name,  too  I  name. 
Their  ancient  name  i  they  vUght  be  proud ;  its  worth 
Was  being  Edith's.    Ah  how  pale  she  bad  louk'd 
Darling,  to-night !  they  must  have  rated  her 
Beyond  all  tolerance.    These  old  pheasant-lords, 
These  partridge-breeders  of  a  thousand  years. 
Who  had  raildew'd  in  their  thousands,  doing  nothing 
Since  Egbert— why,  the  greater  their  disgrace  I 
Fall  back  upon  a  name  I  rest,  rot  in  that  I 
Not  keep  it  noble,  make  It  nobler?  fools, 
With  such  a  vantage-groimd  for  nobleness'. 
He  had  known  a  man,  a  quintessence  of  man. 
The  life  of  all— who  madly  loved— and  he. 
Thwarted  by  one  of  those  old  father-fools. 
Had  rioted  his  life  out,  and  made  an  end. 
He  would  not  do  it !  her  sweet  face  and  fiiith 
Held  him  trom  that :  but  be  had  powers,  be  knew  it : 
Back  wou'.d  he  to  his  studies,  make  a  name. 
Name,  fortune  too:  the  world  should  ring  of  him 
To  shame  these  mouldy  Aylmers  in  their  graves: 
Chancellor,  or  what  is  greatest  wonid  he  be — 
"  O  brother,  I  am  grieved  to  ieam  your  grief— 
Give  me  my  fling,  and  let  me  say  my  say." 

At  which,  like  one  that  sees  his  own  ezcMs, 
And  easily  forgives  it  as  his  own. 
He  laugh 'd;  and  then  was  mute;  but  presently 
Wept  like  a  storm:  and  honest  Averill  seeing 
How  low  his  brother's  mood  had  fallen,  fetch'd 
His  richest  beeswing  ft'om  a  binn  reserved 
For  banquets,  praised  the  waning  red.  and  told 
The  vintage— when  this  Aylmer  came  of  age — 
Then  drank  and  past  it:  till  at  length  the  two, 
Tho'  Leolin  flamed  and  felt  again,  agreed 
That  much  allowance  must  be  made  for  men. 
After  an  angry  dream  this  kindlier  glow 
Faded  with  morning,  but  his  purpose  held. 

Tet  once  by  night  again  the  lovers  met, 
A  perilous  meeting  under  the  tall  pines 
That  darken'd  all  the  northward  of  her  HnlL 
Him,  to  her  meek  and  modest  bosom  pre^^t 
In  agony,  she  promised  that  no  force, 
Persuasion,  no,  nor  death  could  alter  her: 
He,  passionately  hopefuller,  wotild  go, 


ATLMER'S  FIELD. 


m 


I^bor  for  his  own  Bdltb,  and  return 

III  auch  *  Rnulicht  of  pro»p«ritjr 

He  vbould  uol  bfl  rrjectcd.    "  Write  to  ro« ! 

They  luved  me,  Md  becaUMt  I  Idvc  their  child 

They  hate  me :  there  is  wnr  betHceii  im,  dmr, 

Which  breaks  all  lionda  but  ouni :  wo  nmal  rrnulu 

Hatred  to  one  another."    8u  they  talk'd, 

Poor  children,  for  their  comfort:  the  wind  blew; 

The  rain  of  hrnvcn,  mid  their  own  liittcr  teara, 

Tears,  and  the  r:irvle!>ti  rain  of  henven,  mtxt 

l^|)on  their  fiiccs,  as  thejr  kisn'd  each  other 

til  darkness,  and  above  them  roar'd  the  pine. 

So  Leolln  went :  and  as  we  task  onraelves 
To  learn  a  language  known  bnt  smatterinKiy 
In  phrasea  here  and  there  at  random,  totl'd 
Mastering  the  lawless  science  qt  our  law, 
That  codelees  myriad  of  precedent. 
That  wilderness  of  slnf^le  inntnncea, 
Thro'  which  a  few,  by  wit  or  fortune  led. 
May  beat  a  pathway  out  to  wealth  and  fame. 
The  Jests,  that  flaah'd  about  the  pleader's  room. 
Lightning  of  the  honr,  the  pun,  the  scurrilous  tale,— 
Old  scandals  buried  now  seven  decades  deep 
In  other  scandals  that  have  lived  and  died, 
And  left  the  living  scandal  that  shall  die- 
Were  dead  to  him  already;  bent  as  he  was 
To  make  disproof  of  scorn,  and  strong  in  hopes. 
And  prodigal  of  all  brain-labor  he, 
Charier  of  sleep,  and  wine  and  exercise. 
Except  when  for  a  breathing-while  at  eve 
Some  nlg;gard  (hiction  of  an  hour  he  ran 
Beside  the  river-bank :  and  then  indeed 
Harder  the  times  were,  and  the  bands  of  powei; 
Were  bloodier,  and  the  according  hearts  of  men 
Scem'd  harder  too;  but  the  soft  rivcr-brcezc, 
Which  fann'd  the  gardens  of  that  rival  rose 
Yet  fragrant  in  a  heart  remembering 
His  former  talks  with  Edith,  on  him  breathed 
Far  pnrclicr  in  his  mshings  to  and  fro, 
After  bis  books,  to  flush  bis  blood  with  air. 
Then  to  his  books  again.    My  lady's  cousin. 
Half-sickening  of  his  pensioned  afternoon. 
Drove  In  npon  the  the  student  once  or  twice, 
Itan  a  Malayan  murk  against  the  times. 
Had  golden  hopes  for  France  and  all  mankind, 
Answer'd  all  queries  touching  those  at  home 
With  a  heaved  shoulder  and  a  saucy  smile. 
And  fain  had  haled  him  ont  into  the  world, 
And  air'd  him  there:  his  nearer  friend  would  say, 
"Screw  not  the  cord  too  shari>ly  lest  it  snap." 
Then  left  alone  he  plnck'd  her  daeger  forth 
From  where  his  worldless  heart  had  kept  it  warm. 
Kissing  his  vows  npon  it  like  a  knight. 
And  wTinkled  benchers  often  talk'd  of  him 
.\pprovingly,  and  prophesied  his  rise: 
For  heart,  I  think,  belp'd  head:  her  letters  too, 
Tho'  far  between,  and  coming  fitfully 
Like  broken  music,  written  ss  she  found 
Or  made  occasion,  being  strictly  watch'd, 
Charm'd  him  thro'  every  labyrinth  till  he  saw 
An  eni^  a  hope,  a  light  breaking  npon  him. 

Bnt  they  tbat  cast  her  spirit  into  flesh, 
Iler  worldly-wise  begetters,  plagued  fhemsclvca 
To  sell  her,  those  good  parents,  for  her  good. 
Whatever  eldest-bom  of  rank  or  wealth 
Might  lie  within  their  compass,  him  they  lured 
Into  their  net  made  pleasant  by  the  baits 
Of  gold  and  beauty,  wooing  him  to  woo. 
So  month  by  month  the  noise  al>out  their  doors. 
And  distant  blaze  of  those  dull  banquets,  made 
The  nightly  wircr  of  their  Innocent  hare 
Falter  before  he  took  It    All  In  vain. 
Sullen,  defiant,  pitying,  wroth,  relnm'd 
Leolin's  rejected  rivals  from  their  suit 
So  often,  that  the  folly  taking  wings 
Slipt  o'er  those  lazy  limits  down  the  wind 
13 


With  mmor,  and  became  In  other  Aelda 

A  miKkery  to  the  yeomen  over  ule. 

And  lanjthter  to  tlieir  lords:  but  thoee  at  home. 

As  huntera  round  a  hunted  creature  draw 

Tho  cordon  cloae  and  closer  toward  the  deatli, 

Narrow'd  her  golnga  out  and  comings  in ; 

Forbade  her  first  the  house  of  Averill. 

Then  closed  her  sccess  to  the  wealthier  farms. 

Last  from  her  own  home-circle  of  tho  poor 

They  barr'd  her :  yet  sho  bore  it :  yet  her  cheek 

Kept  color :  wondrous !  but,  O  mystery  I 

What  amnlet  drew  her  down  to  that  old  oak. 

So  old,  that  twenty  years  before,  a  part 

Palling  had  let  appear  the  brand  of  John— 

Once  grovelike,  each  huge  arm  a  tree,  but  now 

The  broken  base  of  a  black  tower,  a  cave 

Of  touchwood,  with  a  single  flonrishing  spray. 

There  the  manorial  lord  too  curiously 

Raking  in  that  millennial  touchwood-dust 

Found  for  hlmyeir  a  bitter  treasure-trove; 

Durst  his  own  wyvcrn  on  tho  seal,  and  read 

Writhing  a  letter  from  his  child,  fur  which 

Came  at  the  moment  Leolin's  emissary, 

A  crippled  lad,  and  coming  turii'd  to  fly, 

But  scared  with  threats  of  Jail  and  halter  gave 

To  him  that  flustcr'd  his  poor  parish  wits 

The  letter  which  ho  brought,  and  swore  besides 

To  play  their  go-between  as  heretofore 

Nor  let  them  know  thcmi'elveR  bctray'd,  and  then, 

Soni-strickcn  at  their  kindne.oH  to  hitn,  went 

Hating  his  own  lean  heart  and  miserable. 

Thenceforward  oft  from  out  a  despot  dream 
Panting  he  woke,  and  oft  ns  early  as  dawn 
Aroui^cd  the  black  republic  on  his  elms, 
Sweeping  the  frolhfly  from  the  fescue,  bmi<h'd 
Thro'  the  dim  meadow  toward  his  treasure-trove, 
Seized  it,  took  home,  and  to  my  lady,  who  made 
A  downward  crescent  of  her  minion  mouth. 
Listless  in  all  despondence,  rend :  and  tore, 
As  If  the  living  passion  symboi'd  there 
Were  living  nerves  to  feci  the  rent;  and  burnt. 
Now  chafing  at  his  own  great  self  defied, 
Now  striking  on  huge  stumbling-blocks  of  scorn 
In  babyisms,  and  dear  diminutives 
Scflttcr'd  all  over  the  vocabulary 
Of  such  a  love  as  like  a  chidden  babe, 
.^ricr  much  wailing,  bush'd  itself  at  last 
Hopeless  of  answer:  then  tho'  Averill  wrote 
And  bade  him  with  good  heart  sustain  himself— 
All  would  be  well— the  lover  heeded  not. 
But  passionately  restless  came  and  went. 
And  rustling  once  at  night  about  the  place. 
There  by  a  keeper  shot  at,  slightly  hurt. 
Raging  return'd :  nor  was  it  well  for  her 
Kept  to  the  garden  now,  and  grove  of  pines, 
Watch'd  even  there:  and  one  was  set  to  watrli 
The  watcher,  and  Sir  Aylmer  watch'd  them  all, 
Yet  bitterer  from  his  reodings :  once  indeed. 
Warm'd  with  his  wines,  or  talcing  pride  in  her, 
She  look'd  so  sweet,  he  kiss'd  her  lenderl}-. 
Not  knowing  what  possess'd  him:  that  one  kiss 
Was  Leolin's  one  strong  rival  upon  earth ; 
Seconded,  for  my  lady  follow'd  suit, 
Seem'd  hope's  returning  rose:  and  then  ensued 
A  Martin's  summer  of  his  faded  love. 
Or  ordoal  by  kindness;  after  this 
He  seldom  crost  his  child  without  a  sneer; 
The  mother  flow'd  in  shallower  acrimonies: 
Jfever  one  kindly  smile,  one  kindly  word : 
So  that  the  gentle  creature  shut  from  all 
Her  charitable  use,  and  face  to  face 
Wiih  twenty  months  of  silence,  slowly  lost 
Nor  greatly  cared  to  lose,  her  hold  on  life. 
Last,  some  low  fever  ranging  round  to  spy 
The  weakness  of  a  people  or  a  honse. 
Like  files  that  haunt  a  wonnd,  or  deer,  or  men. 
Or  almost  all  that  is,  hurting  the  hart — 


194 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


Save  Christ  as  we  believe  him— found  the  girl 
And  flung  her  down  upon  a  couch  of  Are, 
Where  careless  of  the  household  faces  near, 
And  crying  upon  the  name  of  Leolin, 
She,  and  with  her  the  race  of  Aylmer,  past. 

Star  to  star  vibrates  light :  may  soul  to  soul 
Strike  thro'  a  finer  element  of  her  own  ? 
So,— from  afar,— touch  as  at  once  ?  or  why 
That  night,  that  moment,  when  she  named  his  name, 
Did  the  keen  shriek,  "  Yes  love,  yes  Edith,  yes," 
Shrill,  till  the  comrade  of  his  chambers  woke, 
And  came  upon  him  half-arisen  from  sleep. 
With  a  weird  bright  eye,  sweating  and  trembling. 
His  hair  as  it  were  crackling  into  flames, 
His  body  half  flung  forward  in  pursuit. 
And  his  long  arms  stretch'd  as  to  grasp  a  flyer: 
Nor  knew  he  wherefore  he  had  made  the  cry: 
And  being  much  befool'd  and  Idioted 
By  the  rough  amity  of  the  other,  sank 
As  into  sleep  again.    The  second  day. 
My  lady's  Indian  kinsman  rushing  in, 
A  breaker  of  the  bitter  news  from  home, 
Found  a  dead  man,  a  letter  edged  with  death 
Beside  him,  and  the  dagger  which  himself 
Gave  Edith,  redden'd  with  no  bandit's  blood 
"From  Edith"  was  engraven  on  the  blade. 

Then  Averlll  went  and  gazed  npon  hla  death. 
And  when  be  came  again,  hit  flock  believed— 
Beholding  how  the  years  which  are  not  Time's 
Had  blasted  him— that  many  thousand  days 
Were  dipt  by  horror  fi'om  his  terra  of  life. 
Yet  the  sad  mother,  for  the  second  death 
Scarce  touch'd  her  thro'  that  nearness  of  the  first, 
And  being  used  to  And  her  pastor  teits. 
Sent  to  the  harrow'd  brother,  praying  him 
To  speak  before  the  people  of  her  child, 
And  flxt  the  Sabbath.    Darkly  that  day  roM: 
Autumn's  mock  suushine  of  the  fiided  woodB 
Was  all  the  life  of  it ;  for  hard  on  these, 
A  breathless  burthen  of  low-folded  heavens 
Stifled  and  chlll'd  at  once :  but  every  roof 
Sent  out  a  listener:  many  too  bad  known 
Edith  among  the  taamleU  round,  and  since 
The  parenU'  harshness  and  the  hapless  loves 
And  double  death  were  widely  mnrmur'd,  left 
Their  own  gray  tower,  or  plain-faced  tabernacle, 
To  bear  him ;  all  in  mourning  these,  and  those 
With  blots  of  it  about  them,  ribbon,  glove 
Or  kerchief;  while  the  church,— one  night,  except 
For  greenish  glimmerings  thro'  the  lancets,— made 
Still  paler  the  pale  head  of  bim,  who  tower'd 
Above  them,  with  bis  hopes  in  either  grave. 

Long  o'er  his  bent  brows  llnger'd  Averill, 
His  face  magnetic  to  the  hand  from  which 
Livid  he  pluck'd  it  forth,  aud  labor'd  thro' 
nis  brief  prayer-prelude,  gave  the  verse  "  Behold, 
Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate !" 
But  lapsed  into  so  long  a  pause  again 
As  half  amazed,  half  frighted  all  bis  flock : 
Then  from  his  height  and  loneliness  of  grief 
Bore  down  in  flood,  and  dash'd  his  angry  heart 
Against  the  desolations  of  the  world. 

Never  since  our  bad  earth  became  one  sea, 
Which  rolling  o'er  the  palaces  of  the  proud. 
And  all  but  those  who  knew  the  living  God- 
Eight  that  were  left  to  make  a  purer  world— 
When    since   had   flood,  Are,  earthquake,  thunder, 

wrought 
Such  waste  and  havoc  as  the  idolatries. 
Which  from  the  low  light  of  mortality 
Shot  up  their  shadows  to  the  Heaven  of  Heavens, 
And  worshipt  their  own  darkness  as  the  Hichest? 
••  Gash  thyself,  priest,  and  honor  thy  brute  Baal, 


And  to  thy  worst  self  sacrifice  thyself; 
For  with  thy  worst  self  hast  thou  clothed  thy  God." 
Then  came  a  Lord  in  no  wise  like  to  Baal. 
The  babe  shall  lead  the  liou.    Surely  now 
The  wilderness  shall  blossom  as  the  rose. 
Crown  thyself,  worm,  and  worship  thine  own  lusts ! — 
No  coarse  and  blockish  God  of  acreage 
Stands  at  thy  gate  for  thee  to  grovel  to— 
Thy  God  Is  far  difl'nsed  in  noble  groves 
And  princely  halls,  and  farms,  and  flowing  lawns, 
And  heaps  of  living  gold  that  daily  grow. 
And  title-scrolls  and  gorgeous  heraldries. 
In  such  a  shape  dost  thou  behold  thy  God. 
Thou  wilt  not  gash  thy  flesh  for  him;  for  thine 
Fares  richly,  in  flue  linen,  not  a  hair 
Ruffled  upon  the  scarfskin,  even  while 
The  deathless  ruler  of  thy  dying  house 
Is  wounded  to  the  death  that  cannot  die; 
And  tho'  thou  numbercst  with  tl»e  followers 
Of  One  who  cried  "  Leave  all  and  follow  me." 
Thee  therefore  with  Uis  light  about  thy  feet,     . 
Thee  with  Uls  message  ringing  in  thine  ears, 
Thee  shall  thy  brother  man,  the  Lord  from  Heaven, 
Bom  of  a  village  girl,  carpenter's  son. 
Wonderful,  Prince  of  peace,  the  Mighty  God, 
Count  the  more  base  Idolater  of  the  two; 
Crueller :  as  not  passing  thro'  the  fire 
Bodies,  but  soala— tby  children's— thro*  the  smoke, 
The  blight  of  low  desires— darkening  thine  own 
To  thine  own  likeness ;  or  if  one  of  these, 
Thy  better  bom  unhappily  from  theo, 
Should,  as  by  miracle,  grow  straight  and  fair- 
Friends,  I  was  bid  to  apeak  of  such  a  one 
By  those  who  moat  have  cause  to  sorrow  for  her— 
Fairer  than  Rachel  by  the  palmy  well. 
Fairer  than  Ruth  among  the  fields  of  com. 
Fair  as  the  Angel  that  said  "ball"  she  seem'd. 
Who  entering  ftll'd  the  house  with  sodden  light 
For  so  mine  own  was  brighten'd :  where  indeed 
The  roof  so  lowly  but  that  beam  of  Heaven 
Dawn'd  sometimes  thro'  the  doorway?  wboee  the 

babe 
Too  ragged  to  be  fondled  on  her  lap, 
Warm'd  at  her  bosom  1    The  poor  child  of  shame. 
The  common  care  whom  no  one  cared  for,  leapt 
To  greet  ber,  wasting  hip  forgotteu  heart, 
As  with  the  mother  be  bad  never  known, 
In  gambols ;  for  ber  fresh  aud  innocent  eyes 
Had  such  a  star  of  morning  in  their  blue, 
That  all  neglected  places  of  the  field 
Broke  into  nature's  music  when  they  saw  her. 
Low  was  ber  voice,  but  won  mysterious  way 
Tbro'  the  seal'd  ear,  to  which  a  louder  one 
Was  all  but  silence— free  of  alms  ber  hand— 
The  baud  that  robed  your  cottage-walls  with  flowers 
Has  often  toil'd  to  clothe  your  little  ones ; 
How  often  placed  upon  the  sick  man's  brow 
Cool'd  it,  or  laid  his  feverous  pillow  smooth ! 
Had  you  one  sorrow  and  she  shared  It  not? 
One  burthen  and  she  would  not  lighten  It? 
One  spiritual  doubt  she  did  not  soothe? 
Or  when  some  heat  of  difference  sparkled  ynt. 
How  sweetly  would  she  glide  between  your  wraths. 
And  steal  you  from  each  other !  for  she  walk'd 
Wearing  the  light  yoke  of  that  Lord  of  love. 
Who  still'd  the  rolling  wave  of  Galilee ! 
And  one— of  him  I  was  not  bid  to  speak— 
Was  always  with  her,  whom  you  also  knew. 
Him  too  you  loved,  for  he  was  worthy  love. 
And  these  had  been  together  from  the  first; 
They  might  have  been  together  till  the  last 
Friends,  this  frail  bark  of  ours,  when  sorely  tried, 
May  wreck  Itself  without  the  pilot's  guilt. 
Without  the  captnin's  knowledge :  hope  with  me. 
Whose  shame  is  that  if  he  went  hence  with  shame  ? 
Nor  mine  the  fault  if  losing  both  of  these 
I  cry  to  vacant  chairs  and  widow'd  walls, 
"My  house  is  left  unto  me  desolate." 


SEA  DREAMS. 


lOfi 


NVbllo  thiu  be  ipoke,  his  hearara  wept ;  bat  Mine, 
Noua  of  the  glebe,  with  other  firowna  than  thoM 
That  kult  themaelvea  for  (ammer  shaduw,  Kuwrd 
At  their  great  lord.    lie,  wheu  It  accni'd  he  mw 
No  pale  aheet-lightuluKB  ttom  afkr,  but  fork'd 
Of  the  near  ■tortn,  and  aiming  at  hla  head. 
Sat  angei^charm'd  (h>m  sorrow,  •oldier>llke, 
Breet:  hot  when  the  preacher'a  cadence  flow'd 
SoAeoIng  thru'  all  the  gentle  attribntee 
Of  his  lost  child,  the  wife,  who  watch'd  his  fiice. 
Paled  at  a  snddeu  twitch  of  his  iron  month ; 
And«  "O  praj  Ood  that  he  hold  np,"  she  thooght, 
"Or  sorely  I  shall  ahame  mjrself  and  him." 

"  Nor  Tonrs  the  blame— for  who  beside  your  hearths 
Can  take  her  place— if  echoing  me  you  cry 
*  Oar  house  is  left  onto  na  desolate  V 
Bat  thoi,  O  thoa  that  killest,  hadst  then  known, 
O  thoa  that  stonest,  hadst  thou  understood 
The  things  belonging  to  thy  peace  and  ours! 
Is  there  no  prophet  but  the  voice  that  calls 
Doom  npon  kings,  or  in  the  waste  '  Repent  1' 
Is  not  our  own  child  on  the  narrow  way, 
Who  down  to  thoee  that  sauulcr  in  the  broad 
Cries  'Come  np  hither,'  as  a  prophet  to  as 7 
Is  there  no  stoning  save  with  flint  and  rock  f 
Yes,  as  the  dead  we  weep  for  testify- 
No  desolation  bat  by  sword  and  fire  ? 
Yes,  as  your  moanings  witness,  and  myself 
Am  lonelier,  darker,  earthlier  for  my  loss. 
Give  me  your  prayers,  for  he  is  past  yonr  prayers. 
Not  past  the  living  fount  of  pity  in  Heaven. 
But  I  that  thought  myself  long-suffering,  meek. 
Exceeding  'poor  in  spirit' — huw  tlio  words 
Have  twisted  back  upon  themselves  and  mean 
Vileness,  we  are  grown  so  proud- 1  wish'd  my  voice 
A  rushing  tempest  of  the  wrath  of  God 
To  blow  these  sacrifices  thro'  the  world- 
Sent  like  the  twelve-divided  concubine 
To  inflame  the  tribes ;  but  there— out  yonder— earth 
Lightens  from  her  own  central  Hell— O  there 
The  red  fruit  of  an  old  idolatry — 
The  heads  of  chicb  and  princes  fall  so  lost. 
They  ding  together  in  the  ghastly  sack— 
The  land  all  shambles — naked  marriages 
Flash  from  the  bridge,  and  ever-murder'd  France, 
By  shores  thai  darken  with  the  gathering  woll^ 
Itnns  in  a  river  of  blood  to  the  sick  sea. 
Is  this  a  time  to  madden  madness  then? 
Was  this  a  time  for  these  to  flaunt  their  pride  ? 
May  Pharaoh's  darkness,  folds  as  dense  as  those 
Which  hid  the  Holiest  from  the  people's  eyes 
Ere  the  great  death,  shrond  this  great  sin  from  all: 
Doobtkiss  our  narrow  world  must  canvass  it; 

0  rather  pray  for  those  and  pity  them 

^Vho  thro'  tijclr  own  desire  accomplish'd  bring 
Their  own  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave — 
Who  broke  the  l>ond  which  they  desired  to  break — 
Which  else   had  link'd  their  race  with  times  to 

come — 
Who  wove  coarse  webs  to  snare  her  purity. 
Grossly  contriving  their  dear  daughter's  good- 
Poor  souls,  and  knew  not  what  they  did,  but  sat 
Ignorant,  devising  their  own  daughter's  death 
May  not  that  earthly  chastisement  suffice? 
Have  not  our  love  and  reverence  left  them  bare  i 
Will  not  another  take  their  heritage? 
Will  there  be  children's  laughter  in  their  hail 
Forever  and  forever,  or  one  stone 
Left  on  another,  or  is  it  a  light  thing 
That  I  their  guest,  their  host,  their  ancient  friend, 

1  made  by  these  the  last  of  all  my  race 
Must  cry  to  these  the  last  of  theirs,  as  cried 
Christ  ere  His  agony  to  those  that  swore 
Not  by  the  temple  but  the  gold,  and  made 
Their  own  traditions  Ood,  and  slew  the  Lord, 
.\nd  left  their  memories  a  world's  curse — '  Behold, 
Your  boose  is  left  unto  you  desolate  ?' " 


Ended  be  had  not,  bat  abe  brook'd  no  more : 
Long  alaoe  her  heart  had  beat  ranoraelcaaly. 
Her  crampt-ap  sorrow  paln'd  ber,  aod  a  sense 
Of  meanness  in  her  unresisting  lins. 
Then  their  eye*  vext  her ;  for  on  entering 
He  had  cast  the  curtains  of  tifistr  seat  aside- 
Black  velvet  of  the  costliest— abe  benelf 
Had  seen  to  tbati  (kin  had  she  dosed  them  now. 
Yet  dared  not  stir  to  do  it,  only  near'd 
Her  husband  Inch  by  Inch,  but  when  she  laid, 
Wifelike,  her  band  In  one  of  his,  he  vell'd 
His  face  with  the  other,  and  at  once,  as  fklls 
A  creeper  when  the  prop  is  broken,  fell 
The  woman  shrieking  at  his  feet,  and  swoon'd. 
Then  her  own  people  bore  along  the  nave 
Her  |>eudent  hands,  and  narrow  meagre  fhce 
geani'd  with  the  shallow  cares  of  fifty  years: 
And  her  the  Lord  of  all  the  landscape  ronnd 
Rv'n  to  its  last  horison,  and  of  all 
Who  peer'd  at  him  so  keenly,  follow'd  out 
Tall  and  erect,  but  in  the  middle  aisle 
Reel'd,  as  a  footsore  ox  In  crowded  waya 
Stumbling  acroes  the  market  to  his  death, 
Unpitied ;  for  he  groped  as  blind,  and  seem'd 
Always  about  to  fall,  grasping  the  pews 
And  oaken  flnials  till  he  toucb'd  the  door; 
Vet  to  the  lychgato,  wlicre  his  chariot  stood. 
Strode  from  the  porch,  tail  and  erect  again. 

But  nevermore  did  either  pass  the  gate 
Save  under  pall  with  bearers.    In  one  month, 
Thro'  weary  and  yet  ever  wearier  hours, 
The  childless  mother  went  to  seek  her  child; 
And  when  he  felt  the  silence  of  his  house 
About  him,  and  the  change  and  not  the  change. 
And  those  flxt  eyes  of  painted  ancestors 
Staring  forever  from  their  gilded  walls 
On  him  their  last  descendant,  his  own  head 
Began  to  droop,  to  fall ;  the  man  became 
Imbecile ;  his  one  word  was  "  desolate ;" 
Dead  for  two  years  lx;fore  his  death  was  he; 
But  when  the  second  Christmas  came,  escaped 
His  keepers,  and  the  silence  which  he  felt. 
To  find  a  deeper  in  the  narrow  gloom 
By  wife  and  child ;  nor  wanted  at  his  end 
The  dark  retinue  revcrenciug  death 
At  golden  thresholds ;  nor  from  tender  hearts, 
And  those  who  sorrowed  o'er  a  vanish'd  race. 
Pity,  the  violet  on  the  tyrant's  grave. 
Then  the  great  Hall  was  wholly  broken  down. 
And  the  broad  woodland  parcell'd  into  farms; 
And  where  tlie  two  contrived  their  daughter's  good, 
Lies  the  hawk's  cast,  the  mole  has  made  his  run. 
The  hedgehog  underneath  the  plantain  bores. 
The  rabbit  fondles  his  own  harmless  face. 
The  slow-worm  creeps,  and  the  thin  weasel  there 
Follows  the  mouse,  and  all  is  open  field. 


SEA  DREAMS. 

A  CITY  clerk,  but  gently  born  and  bred ; 
His  wife,  an  unknown  artist's  orphan  child- 
One  babe  was  theirs,  a  Margaret,  three  years  old: 
They,  thinking  that  her  clear  germander  eye 
Droopt  in  the  giant-factoried  city-gloom, 
Came,  with  a  month's  leave  givefl  them,  to  the  ;ea ; 
For  which  his  gains  were  dock'd,  however  small: 
Small  were  his  gains,  and  hard  his  work ;  besides. 
Their  slender  household  fortunes  (for. the  man 
Had  risk'd  his  little)  like  the  little  thrift. 
Trembled  in  perilous  places  o'er  a  deep; 
And  oft,  when  sitting  all  alone,  his  face 
Would  darken,  as  he  cursed  his  crednlonsneas. 
And  that  one  unctuous  mouth  which  lured  him,  rognc. 
To  buy  strange  shares  in  some  Peruvian  mine. 
Now  seaward-bound  for  health  they  gain'd  a  coast. 


19G 


SEA  DREAMS. 


All  eaud  and  cliff  and  deep-inrunning  cave, 

At  close  of  day ;  slept,  woke,  and  went  the  next. 

The  Sabbath,  pious  varlers  from  the  church. 

To  chapel ;  where  a  heated  pulpiteer. 

Not  preaching  simply  Christ  to  simple  men. 

Announced  the  coming  doom,  and  fulminated 

Against  the  scarlet  woman  and  her  creed : 

For  sideways  up  he  swung  his  arms,  and  shriek'd, 

"  Thus,  thus  with  violence,"  ev'n  as  if  he  held 

The  Apocal3T)tic  millstone,  and  himself 

Were  that  great  Angel ;  "  thus  %vith  violence 

Shall  Babylon  be  cast  into  the  sea; 

Then  comes  the  close."    The  gentle-hearted  wife 

Sat  shuddering  at  the  ruin  of  a  world ; 

lie  at  his  own :  but  when  the  wordy  storm 

Had  ended,  titrth  they  came  and  paced  the  shore, 

Ran  in  and  out  the  long  sea-framing  cave». 

Drank  the  large  air,  and  saw,  but  scarce  bcliered 

(The  Bootflake  of  so  many  a  summer  still 

Clang  to  their  fancies)  that  they  saw,  the  sea. 

So  now  on  sand  they  walk'd,  and  now  on  cliff. 

Lingering  about  the  thymy  promontories, 

Till  all  the  sails  were  darken'd  In  the  west, 

And  rosed  in  the  east :  then  homevrard  and  to  bed  : 

Where  she,  who  kept  a  tender  Christiao  hope 

Haunting  a  holy  text,  and  still  to  that 

Ketuming,  as  the  bird  returns,  at  night, 

"  Let  not  the  snn  go  down  upon  your  wrath," 

Said,  "  Love,  forgive  him :"  but  he  did  not  speak ; 

And  silenced  by  that  silence  lay  the  wife, 

Bememberlng  her  dear  Lord  who  died  for  all, 

And  musing  on  the  little  lives  of  men. 

And  bow  they  mar  this  little  by  their  feuds. 

But  while  the  two  were  sleeping,  n  (tall  tide 
Hose  with  ground-swell,  which,  on  the  foremost  rocks 
Touching,  upjettcd  In  spirts  of  wild  cea-smoke, 
And  scaled  In  sheets  of  wasteful  foam,  and  fell 
In  vast  sea-cataract«— ever  and  anon 
Dead  claps  of  thunder  from  within  the  cllffli 
Heard  thro'  the  living  roar.    At  this  the  babe. 
Their  Margaret  cradled  near  them,  walfd  and  woke 
The  mother,  and  the  father  suddenly  cried, 
'*  A  wreck,  a  wreck  I"  then  tnm'd,  and  groaning  said 

"  Forgive !    IIow  many  will  say  '  forgive,'  and  And 
A  sort  of  absolution  In  the  sound 
To  bate  a  little  longer!    No;  the  sin 
That  neither  Ood  nor  man  can  well  forgive, 
Hypocrisy,  I  saw  it  in  him  at  once, 
la  it  BO  trae  that  second  thoughts  are  best? 
Not  first,  and  third,  which  are  a  rlj)cr  first? 
Too  ripe,  too  late !  they  come  too  late  for  use. 
Ah  love,  there  surely  lives  In  man  and  beast 
Something  divine  to  warn  them  of  their  foes ; 
And  snch  a  sense,  when  first  I  fronted  him, 
Said,  'Trust  him  not;'  but  after,  when  I  came 
To  know  him  more,  I  lost  it,  knew  him  less; 
Fought  with  what  seem'd  my  own  nncharity ; 
Sat  at  his  table ;  drank  his  costly  wines ; 
Made  more  and  more  allowance  for  his  talk; 
Went  further,  fool !  and  trusted  him  with  all, 
All  my  poor  scrapings  from  a  dozen  years 
Of  dust  and  deskwork ;  there  is  no  Buch  mine, 
None ;  but  a  gulf  of  min,  swallowing  gold. 
Not  making.    Ruin'd  t  ruin'd !  the  sea  roars 
Ruin:  a  fearful  night!" 

"  Not  fearflil ;  fair," 
Said  the  good  wife,  "  if  every  star  in  heaven 
Can  make  it  fair:  you  do  but  hear  the  tide. 
Had  you  ill  dreams?" 

"O  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  dream'd 
Of  snch  a  tide  swelling  toward  the  land. 
And  I  from  out  the  boundless  outer  deep 
Swept  with  it  to  the  shore,  and  enter'd  one 
Of  those  dark  cave?  that  run  beneath  the  cliff*. 


I  thought  the  motion  of  the  boundless  deep 

Bore  through  the  cave,  and  I  was  heaved  upon  it 

In  darkness :  theu  I  saw  one  lovely  star 

Larger  and  larger.    'What  a  world,'  I  thought, 

'To  live  in !'  but  in  moving  on  I  found 

Only  the  landward  exit  of  the  cave. 

Bright  with  the  sun  upon  the  stream  beyond: 

And  near  the  light  a  giant  woman  sat. 

All  over  earthy,  like  a  piece  of  earth, 

A  pickaxe  in  her  hand :  theu  out  I  slipt 

Into  a  land  all  sun  and  blossom,  trees 

As  high  as  heaven,  and  every  bird  that  sings: 

And  here  the  night-light  flickering  in  my  eyes 

Awoke  me." 

"That  was  then  your  dream,"  she  said, 
"Not  sad,  but  sweet." 

"  So  sweet,  I  lay,"  said  he, 
"And  mnsed  npon  it,  drifting  up  the  stream 
In  fancy,  till  I  slept  again,  and  pieced 
The  broken  vision;  for  I  dream'd  that  still 
The  motion  of  the  great  deep  bore  me  on. 
And  that  the  woman  walk'd  upon  the  brink : 
I  wonder'd  at  her  strength,  and  ask'd  her  of  it : 
'It- came,'  she  said,  'by  working  in  the  mines:' 

0  then  to  ask  her  of  my  shares,  I  thought ; 
And  ask'd ;  but  not  a  word ;  she  shook  her  head. 
And  then  the  motion  of  the  current  ceased. 
And  there  was  rolling  thunder;  and  we  reach 'd 
A  mnnntain,  like  a  wall  of  burns  and  thorns  t 
Bat  she  with  her  strong  feet  up  the  steep  hill 
Trod  oat  a  path :  I  follow'd ;  and  at  top 

She  pointed  seaward :  there  a  fleet  of  glass, 
That  seem'd  a  fleet  of  Jewels  under  me. 
Sailing  along  before  a  gloomy  cloud 
That  not  one  moment  ceased  to  thunder,  pa.ot 
In  sunshine ;  right  across  its  track  there  lay, 
Down  in  the  water,  a  long  reef  of  gold, 
Or  what  seem'd  gold:  and  I  was  glad  at  first 
To  think  that  In  our  often-ransacked  world 
Still  so  much  gold  was  left;  and  then  I  fear'd 
Lest  the  gay  navy  there  should  splinter  on  it. 
And  fearing  waved  my  arm  to  warn  them  off; 
An  idle  signal,  for  the  brittle  fleet 
(I  thought  I  could  have  died  to  save  it)  near'd, 
Toach'd,  cliuk'd,  and  clash'd,  and  vanish'd,  and  I 
woke, 

1  heard  the  clash  so  clearly.    Now  I  see 

My  dream  was  Life;  the  woman  honest  Work; 
And  my  poor  venture  but  a  fleet  of  glass, 
Wreck'd  on  a  reef  of  visionary  gold." 

"Nay,"  said  the  kindly  wife  to  comfort  him, 
"Yon  raised  your  arm,  yon  tumbled  down  and  broke 
The  glass  with  little  Margaret's  medicine  in  It ; 
And,   breaking   that,  you   made  and   broke   your 

dream: 
A  trifle  makes  a  dream,  a  trifle  breaks." 

"No  trifle,"  groan 'd  the  husband;  "yesterday 
I  met  him  suddenly  in  the  street,  and  ask'd 
That  which  I  ask'd  the  woman  in  my  dream. 
Like  her,  he  shook  his  head.    '  Show  me  the  books !' 
He  dodged  me  with  a  long  and  loose  account. 
'The  books,  the  books!'  but  he,  he  could  not  wait, 
Bonnd  on  a  matter  he  of  life  and  death : 
When  the  great  Books  (see  Daniel  seven  and  ten) 
Were  open'd,  I  should  find  he  meant  me  well : 
And  then  began  to  bloat  hirapelf,  and  ooze 
All  over  with  the  fat  affectionate  smile 
That  makes  the  widow  lean.    'My  dearest  friend, 
Have  faith,  have  faith !    We  live  by  faith,'  said  he ; 
'And  all  things  work  together  for  the  good 
Of  those  '—it  makes  me  sick  to  quote  him— last 
Gript  my  hand  hard,  and  with  God-bless-yon  went. 
I  stood  like  one  that  had  received  a  blow: 
I  fonr.d  a  hard  friend  in  his  loose  accounts^ 


SEA  DKEAMiil. 


ll»7 


A  looM  one  in  the  bard  grip  of  hU  hand, 
A  cune  in  hi*  Qod-bloM-you :  thcu  my  vyM 
Ponoed  him  down  tho  itrvet,  «ud  tu  awajr, 
Among  the  houeet  •hoaldcru  of  the  crowd, 
Head  raacal  In  the  motions  uf  hU  back, 
And  aoooadrel  in  tho  supploHillding  knee." 

"Waa  he  to  bonnd,  poor  aoolt"  aald  the  good 

wifo; 
"  So  are  we  all :  bat  do  not  call  him,  love. 
Before  you  prove  him,  n)|niP<  and  proved,  forijlve. 
Ills  gain  la  low;  fur  be  ibat  wrtiu)^  bin  (Vicud 
Wrongs  hlmcelf  mure,  atul  ever  beiira  about 
A  client  court  of  Juvtlcc  in  Mh  breast. 
Himself  the  Judt^o  and  Jary,  and  himself 
The  prisoner  at  the  bar,  ever  coudcmu'd  : 
And  that  drags  down  his  life:  then  comes  what 

comes 
nereafter:  aud  be  meant,  he  vnid  he  meant. 
Perhaps  he  meant,  or  partly  meant,  you  well." 

"'With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye  askew'— 
Love,  let  me  quote  these  liue«,  that  you  may  learn 
A  man  is  likewise  counsel  for  himself. 
Too  often  in  that  silent  court  of  yours— 
'With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye  nekcw. 
So  fall^e,  ho  partly  tu<>k  himself  fur  true  ; 
Whose  piuns  talk,  when  most  his  heart  was  dry. 
Made  wet  the  crafty  crowsfoot  ruuud  his  eye ; 
Who,  never  naming  God  except  for  gain, 
So  never  took  that  uscflil  name  in  vain ; 
Made  Him  bis  catt<paw  and  the  Cross  his  tool, 
And  Christ  the  bait  tu  trap  bis  dupe  and  foul ; 
Nor  deeds  of  gift,  but  gifts  of  grace  he  forged, 
And  snakelike  slimed  his  victim  ere  he  gorged; 
And  oft  at  Bible  meetings,  o'er  the  rest 
Arising,  did  his  holy  oily  best. 
Dropping  the  too  rough  II  in  Hell  and  Heaven, 
To  spread  the  Word  by  which  himself  had  thriven.' 
How  like  you  this  old  satire?" 

"Nay,"  she  said, 
"I  loathe  it:  he  bad  never  kindly  heart, 
Nor  ever  cared  to  better  his  own  kind. 
Who  first  wrote  satire  with  no  pity  in  it. 
But  will  you  hear  nij/  dream,  for  I  had  one 
That  altopether  went  to  music?    Still 
It  awed  me." 

Then  she  told  it,  having  dream'd  • 
Of  that  same  coast 

— "  But  round  the  North,  a  light, 
A  belt,  it  scem'd,  of  luminous  vapor,  lay. 
And  ever  in  it  a  low  musical  note 
Swell'd  np  and  died ;  and,  as  it  swell'd,  a  ridge 
Of  breaker  issned  fh)m  the  belt,  and  still 
Grew  with  the  growing  note,  and  when  the  note 
Had  reach'd  a  thunderous  fullness  on  those  clifb 
Broke,  niixt  with  awful  light  (the  same  as  that 
Living  within  the  belt)  whereby  she  saw 
That  all  thoce  lines  of  cliffs  were  cliffs  no  more, 
But  bufre  cathedral  fronts  of  every  age. 
Grave,  florid,  stem,  as  far  as  eye  conld  see. 
One  after  one:  and  then  the  great  ridge  drew. 
Lessening  to  the  lessening  mut>ic,  back. 
And  past  Into  the  l>elt  and  swell'd  again 
Slowly  to  music:  ever  when  it  broke 
The  statues,  king  or  saint,  or  founder,  fell : 
Then  fktim  the  gaps  and  chasms  of  ruin  left 
Came  men  and  women  in  dark  clusters  round. 
Some  crying  'Set  them  up!  they  shall  not  fall!' 
And  others,  'Let  them  lie,  for  they  have  fall'n.' 
And  still  they  strove  and  wrangled :  and  she  grieved 
In  her  strange  dream,  she  knew  not  why,  to  find 
Their  wildest  wailiugs  never  out  of  tone 
With  that  sweet  note ;  and  ever  as  their  shKeks 
Ran  highest  up  the  gamut,  that  tTcut  wave 


Returning,  while  none  mark'd  it,  on  the  crowd 
Broke,  ntixt  with  uwrul  llK'ht,  and  rbow'd  their  eyes 
Glaring,  and  pHi>Klonnic>  liHiki>,  and  swept  away 
The  men  of  flesh  and  blood,  end  men  of  atone, 
To  the  WMte  deeps  together. 

"Then  I  flzt 
My  whitfhl  eyes  on  two  fair  images. 
Both  crown 'd  with  atars  and  high  among  the  ttara,— 
The  Virgin  Mother  sunding  with  her  child 
High  up  on  one  of  those  dark  minster-fronts— 
Till  she  began  to  totter,  and  the  child 
Clung  to  the  mother,  and  sent  out  a  cry 
Which  mizt  with  little  Margaret's,  and  I  woke. 
And   my   dream  awed  me:- well- but  what  aio 

dreams  ? 
Yours  came  but  fk'om  the  breaking  of  a  glass. 
And  mine  but  from  the  crying  of  a  child." 

"Child?    No  I"  said  be,  "bnt  this  tide's  roar,  and 

hL«, 
Our  Boanerges,  with  his  threats  of  doom, 
And  loud-lung'd  Autibabylonianisms 
{Altho'  I  grant  but  little  music  there) 
Went  both  to  make  your  dream:  but  if  there  were 
A  music  harmonizing  our  wild  cries. 
Sphere-music  such  as  that  you  dream'd  about. 
Why,  that  would  make  our  pash^lous  fur  too  like 
The  discords  dear  to  the  musician.    No — 
One  shriek  of  hate  wuuld  Jar  all  the  hymns  cf 

heaven : 
Trne  Devils  with  no  ear,  they  howl  in  tune 
With  nothing  but  the  Devil  I" 

"'Trne'  indeed! 
One  of  our  town,  bnt  later  by  an  hour 
Here  than  ourselves,  spoke  with  me  on  the  shore: 
While  you  were  running  down  the  sands,  and  made 
The  dimpled  flounce  of  the  sca-furbclow  flap. 
Good  man,  to  please  the  child.    She  brought  strange 

news. 
Why  were  you  silent  when  I  spoke  to-night? 
I  had  set  my  heart  on  your  forgiving  him 
Before  you  knew.    We  must  forgive  the  dead." 

"  Dead !  who  is  dead  ?" 

"  The  man  your  eye  pursued. 
A  little  after  yon  had  parted  with  him. 
He  suddenly  dropt  dead  of  heart-disease.'* 

"Dead?  he?  of  heart-disease?  what  heart  had  he 
To  die  of?  dead !" 

"  Ah,  dearest.  If  there  be 
A  devil  in  man,  there  is  an  angel  too, 
And  if  he  did  that  wrong  you  charge  him  with. 
Ills  angel  broke  bis  heart.    But  your  rough  voice 
(You  spoke  so  lond)  has  roused  the  child  again. 
Sleep,  little  birdie,  sleep  I  will  she  not  sleep 
Without  her  '  little  birdie  ?'  well  then,  sleep, 
And  I  will  sing  j-ou  'birdlc.'" 

Saying  this. 
The  woman  half  tom'd  ronnd  from  him  she  loved, 
Left  him  one  hand,  and  reaching  thro'  the  night 
Her  other,  found  (for  it  was  close  beside) 
And  half  embraced  the  basket  cradle-head 
With  one  soft  arm,  which,  like  the  pliant  bough 
That  moving  moves  the  nest  and  nestling,  sway'd 
The  cradle,  while  she  sang  this  baby  song. 

What  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day? 
Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 
Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer. 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 


198 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


So  Bhe  rests  a  little  longer, 
Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  t 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 
Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 
Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer, 
Baby  too  Bhall  fly  away. 


"  She  sleeps :  let  ns  too,  let  all  enl,  sleep. 
He  also  sleeps — another  sleep  than  ours. 
He  can  do  no  more  wrong:  forgive  him,  dear, 
And  I  shall  sleep  the  sotinder !" 

Then  the  man, 
"His  deeds  yet  live,  the  worst  is  yet  to  come. 
Yet  let  your  sleep  for  this  one  night  be  sound: 
I  do  forgive  him  I" 

"  Thanks,  my  love,"  she  said, 
"Your  own  will  be  the  sweeter,"  and  they  elept- 


THE  GR.VXDMOTHER. 


Asn  Willy,  my  eldest-bom,  is  gone,  yon  say,  little  Annet 
Ruddy  and  white,  and  strong  on  hia  legs,  be  looks  like  a  man. 
And  Willy's  wife  has  written :  she  never  was  over-wise. 
Never  the  wife  for  Willy:  ho  would  n't  take  my  advice. 

II. 

For,  Annie,  yon  see,  her  father  waa  not  the  man  to  save. 
Had  n't  a  bead  to  manage,  and  drank  himself  into  his  grave. 
Pretty  enongb,  very  pretty  I  but  I  was  against  it  for  one. 
£b !— but  be  would  n't  bear  me— and  Willy,  you  say,  is  gone. 

UL 
Willy,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-bom,  the  flower  of  the  flock; 
Never  a  man  could  fling  him:  for  Willy  stood  like  a  rock. 
"  Here's  a  leg  for  a  baby  of  a  week !"  says  doctor :  and  be  would  be  bound. 
There  was  not  his  like  that  year  in  twenty  parishes  round. 

IV. 

Strong  of  hia  bands,  and  strong  on  bis  legs,  but  still  of  his  tongue ! 
I  onght  to  have  gone  before  bim:  I  wonder  be  went  so  young. 
I  cannot  cry  for  him,  Annie:  I  have  not  long  to  stay; 
Perbai>8  I  shall  see  him  the  sooner,  for  be  lived  tu  away. 


Why  do  you  look  at  me,  Annie  f  yon  think  I  am  bard  and  eold; 
But  all  my  children  have  gone  before  me,  I  am  ao  old: 
I  cannot  weep  for  Willy,  nor  can  I  weep  for  the  reat; 
Only  at  your  ngc,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the  best. 

VI. 

For  I  remember  a  quarrel  I  had  with  youj-  father,  my  dear. 
All  for  a  slanderous  story,  that  cost  me  many  a  tear. 
I  mean  your  grandfather,  Annie :  it  cost  me  a  world  of  woe, 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  aga 

VII. 

For  Jenny,  my  cousin,  had  come  to  the  place,  and  I  knew  right  well 
That  Jenny  had  tript  in  her  time:  I  knew,  but  I  would  not  tell. 
And  she  to  be  coming  and  slandering  me,  the  base  little  liar ! 
But  the  tongue  is  a  fire,  as  yon  know,  my  dear,  the  tongue  is  a  Are. 

vin. 

And  the  parson  made  it  his  text  that  week,  and  he  said  likewise. 
That  a  lie  which  is  half  a  truth  is  ever  fhe  blackest  of  lies. 
That  a  lie  which  is  all  a  lie  may  be  met  and  fonght  with  outright. 
But  a  lie  which  is  part  a  truth  is  a  harder  matter  to  fight 

IX. 

And  Willy  had  not  been  down  to  the  farm  for  a  week  and  a  day; 
And  all  thiugs  look'd  bnlf-dead,  tho'  it  was  the  middle  of  May. 
Jenny,  to  slander  me,  who  knew  what  Jenny  had  been  I 
But  soiling  another,  Annie,  will  never  make  one's  self  clean. 


And  I  cried  myself  wellnigh  blind,  and  all  of  an  evening  late 

I  climb'd  to  the  top  of  the  garth,  and  stood  by  the  road  at  the  gate. 

The  moon  lilce  a  rick  on  Are  was  rising  over  the  dale, 

And  whit,  whit,  whit,  in  the  bush  beside  me  chirrnpt  the  nightingale. 


THE  GRANDMtyrilER.  I'JO 


XL 

All  of  a  snddcn  he  atopt:  there  pas^  bjr  the  gate  of  the  farm, 
Wtllyi— he  did  n't  aee  me,— aod  Jenny  hung  od  hi*  arm. 
Oat  Into  the  road  I  started,  and  vpoke  I  acarce  knew  how ; 
Ah,  there's  no  (bol  like  the  old  one— it  make*  me  angry  now. 

XII. 

Willy  atood  ap  Uke  a  man,  and  lo<ik'd  the  thing  that  ho  meant  < 
Jenny,  the  viper,  nude  me  a  roockiun  cunrtcsy  and  went. 
And  I  said,  "  Let  oa  part:  in  a  hundred  years  it  'II  all  be  the  same, 
Yuo  cannot  love  me  at  all,  if  yon  love  uut  my  good  name." 

XIIL 
And  he  tnm'd,  and  I  saw  his  eyes  all  wet,  in  the  sweet  moonshine: 
"Sweetheart,  I  love  yoa  so  m-cII  that  your  f^uod  name  is  mine. 
And  what  do  I  care  for  Jane,  let  her  f<|>oak  of  you  well  or  ill ; 
Bat  marry  me  out  of  band:  we  too  shall  bo  happy  stllL" 

XIV. 

•  Marry  yon,  Willy  V  said  I,  "  but  I  needs  most  speak  my  mind. 
And  I  fear  yon'll  listen  to  Ules,  be  Jealons  and  hard  and  unkind." 
Bat  he  tnm'd  and  claspt  me  in  his  arms,  and  answer'd,  "  No,  love,  no ;" 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 

XV. 

So  Willy  and  I  were  wedded :  I  wore  a  lilac  gown ; 
And  the  ringers  rang  with  a  will,  and  he  gave  the  ringers  a  crown. 
But  the  first  that  ever  I  bare  was  dead  before  he  was  bom. 
Shadow  and  shine  is  life,  little  Annie,  flower  and  thorn. 

XVI. 

That  wa«  the  fln>t  time,  too,  that  ever  I  thouRht  of  death. 

There  lay  the  sweet  little  body  that  never  had  drawn  a  breath. 

I  had  not  wept,  little  Annie,  not  »iurc  I  had  been  a  wife ; 

Bat  I  wept  like  a  child  that  day,  for  the  babe  bad  fought  for  his  life. 

XVIL 

His  dear  little  face  was  troubled,  as  if  with  anger  or  pain : 

I  look'd  at  the  still  little  body— his  trouble  bad  all  been  in  vain. 

For  Willy  1  cannot  weep,  I  shall  «!e  him  another  mora : 

But  I  wept  like  a  child  for  the  child  that  was  dead  before  he  was  bom^ 

XVIIL 

But  he  chccr'd  me,  my  good  man,  for  he  seldom  said  me  nay ; 
Kind,  like  a  man,  was  he;  like  a  man,  too,  would  have  his  way: 
Never  jealons — not  he :  we  had  many  a  happy  year ; 
And  he  died,  and  I  could  not  weep— my  own  time  seem'd  so  near. 

XIX. 

But  I  wish'd  it  had  been  God's  will  that  I,  too,  then  could  have  died : 
I  began  to  be  tired  a  little,  and  fain  had  slept  at  bis  side. 
And  that  was  ten  years  back,  or  more,  if  I  don't  forget: 
But  as  to  tbe  children,  Annie,  they  'rc  all  about  me  yet. 

XX. 

Pattering  over  the  boards,  my  Annie  who  left  me  at  two. 
Patter  she  goes,  my  own  little  Annie,  an  Annie  like  you: 
Pattering  over  the  boards,  she  comes  and  goes  at  her  will, 
While  Harry  is  In  tbe  five-acre  and  Charlie  ploughing  the  bill 

XXL 

And  Harry  and  Charlie,  1  hear  them  too— they  cinij  to  their  team : 
Often  they  come  to  the  door  in  a  pleasant  kind  of  a  dream. 
They  come  and  sit  by  my  chair,  they  hover  about  my  bed — 
I  am  not  always  certain  if  they  be  alive  or  dead. 

XXIL 
And  yet  I  know  for  a  truth,  there  's  none  of  them  left  alive ; 
For  Harry  went  at  sixty,  your  father  at  sixty-five: 
And  Willy,  my  eldest-borh,  at  nitrh  threescore  and  ten : 
I  knew  them  all  as  babies,  and  now  they  're  elderly  men. 

XXIII. 
For  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  it  is  not  often  I  grieve ; 
I  am  oftener  sitting  at  home  in  my  father's  farm  at  eve; 
And  the  neiehbors  come  snd  laugh  and  gossip,  and  so  do  I : 
I  find  myeelf  often  laughing  at  things  that  have  long  gone  by. 


200  NORTHERN  FARMER. 


XXIV. 

To  be  Bare  the  preacher  says,  onr  sin^  should  make  ns  sad : 
But  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  and  there  is  Grace  to  be  had ; 
And  God,  not  man,  is  the  Judge  of  ns  all  when  life  shall  cease ; 
And  in  this  Book,  little  Annie,  the  message  is  one  of  Peace. 

XXV. 

And  age  is  a  time  of  peace,  so  It  be  free  from  pain, 
And  happy  has  been  my  life ;  but  I  would  not  live  it  again. 
I  seem  to  be  tired  a  little,  that  's  all,  and  Icmg  for  rest : 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the  best. 

XXVL 

So  Willy  has  gone,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-bom,  my  flower ; 
Bat  how  can  I  weep  for  Willy,  he  has  but  gone  for  an  boar, — 
Gone  for  a  minute,  my  son,  from  this  room  into  the  next ; 
I,  too,  shall  go  in  a  minute.    What  time  have  I  to  be  vextf 

XXVIL 

And  Willy's  wife  has  written,  she  never  was  over-wise. 
Get  me  my  glasses,  Annie:  thank  God  that  I  keep  my  eyes. 
There  is  but  u  trifle  left  yon,  when  I  shall  have  past  away. 
Bat  Btay  with  the  old  woman  now:  yoa  cannot  have  long  to  stay. 


NORTHERN  FARJIEB. 

OLD   8TTLE. 
L 

WnxEB  'asta  b«tln  law  long  and-  meil  liggin'  'ere  aloAn  t 
Noorse?  thoort  uowt  o'  a  uoorse:  whoy,  doctor  'a  abetin  an'  agoiin: 
Says  that  I  mofint  'a  naw  moor  yaaio:  but  I  beilnt  a  fool: 
Git  ma  my  yuule,  for  I  beint  a-gooiu'  to  break  my  rule. 

II. 

Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  for  a  says  what  'e  nawways  true: 
Naw  Boort  u'  koind  o'  nse  to  sauy  the  things  that  a  do. 
I  've  'ed  my  point  o*  yaftl  Irry  noight  sin'  I  befln  'ere, 
An'  I  've  'ed  my  qnart  ivry  market-noight  for  foorty  year. 

IIL 
Parson  's  a  beiln  lolkewoise,  an'  a  slttA)  'ere  o'  my  bed. 
"  The  omolgbty  'a  a  ta&kin  o'  you  to  'Issen,  my  ft-iend,"  'a  raid, 
An'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an  's  tuithe  were  due,  an'  I  gied  it  in  bond ; 
I  done  my  duty  by  un,  as  I  'a  done  by  the  loud. 

IV. 

Lam'd  a  ma'  be^    I  reckons  I  'annot  sa  mooch  to  lam. 

Bat  a  coat  oop,  tbot  a  did,  'boot  Bestiy  liarrts's  bam. 

Thof  a  knaws  I  hallos  voited  wi'  Squoire  an'  choorch  an  stoute, 

An'  i'  the  woost  o'  toimea  I  war  niver  agin  the  raiite. 

V. 

An'  I  hallns  corned  to  's  choorch  afoor  my  Sally  wur  dead. 
An'  'eerd  un  a  bummin'  awaay  loike  a  buzzard-clock*  ower  my  yefid. 
An'  I  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  mean'd  but  I  thuwt  a  'ad  summut  to  sauy, 
An'  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said  an'  I  comcd  awaiiy. 

VI. 

Bessy  Marris'a  bam !  tha  knaws  she  lauid  it  to  mc3. 
Mowt  'a  beau,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a  bad  un,  she&. 
'Siver,  I  kep  un,  I  kep  un,  my  la.«9,  tha  muu  nnderstoud ; 
I  done  my  duty  by  un  as  I  'a  dune  by  the  lond. 

Ml. 

But  Parson  a  comes  an'  a  goos,  an'  a  says  it  easy  an'  freea 
"The  amoighty  's  a  tnukin  o'  you  to  'issen,  my  friend,"  says  'ea. 
I  weant  saiiy  men  be  lolars,  thof  summun  said  it  in  'auAe: 
Bnt  a  reiids  wonn  sarmin  a  weeak,  an'  I  'a  stubl^d  Thornaby  waiiste. 

VIII. 

D'  ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  Inss  ?  naw,  naw,  tha  was  not  born  then ; 

Theer  wur  a  bojrgle  in  it,  I  often  'eerd  un  mysen ; 

MoiSst  loike  a  btuter-bump.t  for  I  'eerd  nu  aboot  an  aboot, 

Bnt  I  stubb'd  un  oop  wi'  the  lot,  and  raaved  an'  rembled  nu  oot. 

•  CockchaAr.  f  Bltteru. 


TITHOXUS. 


201 


IX. 

Ka3p«r'«  It  wnr;  fu*  th«7  tan  an  theer  a  laAld  on  la  ftUco 
Doon  i'  the  wolld  'rnemirH*  itriMir  I  romed  to  ttM  plaice 
NoAka  or  Thlmblcby— toner  'cd  chot  an  aa  daid  aa  a  uaAlI. 
Noika  wnr  'ang'd  for  It  oup  at  'voIm— but  git  ma  my  j»U«. 


Dubbut  looak  nt  the  walata :  theer  war  n't  not  Ib2d  for  a  cow ; 
Nowt  at  all  bnt  bracken  an'  fUsa,  an*  looiik  at  It  now- 
War  n't  worth  uowi  a  baAcro,  an'  now  thcer'n  lota  o'  feud, 
Fourscore  yows  upon  It  an*  aome  on  It  doou  In  e«ild. 

XI. 

Nobbot  a  bit  on  It  *a  left,  au'  I  mean'd  to  *a  atubb'd  It  at  fall, 
Done  It  ta-year  I  mciin'd,  an'  ruuii'd  plow  thrnff  it  an'  all. 
If  godamolgbty  an'  parson  'ud  iiobbut  let  nin  aloun, 
Mel,  wl'  baAte  ooudord  hailcro  u'  Squolru'a  nu'  load  o'  rojr  do. 

XII. 

Do  godareol(;hty  knaw  what  a  'a  doing  a-taiikln'  o'  mei  t 
I  befiut  wunn  as  s«wa  'ere  a  bein  an'  yonder  a  pe< ; 
An'  Sqnolrc  'ull  be  aa  mad  an'  all— «'  dear  a'  dear ! 
And  I  'a  raouagud  for  Squoire  come  MIchaelmaa  thirty  year. 

XIII. 
A  mowt  'tt  tuiikcn  Joinea,  as  *ant  a  'ailpoth  o'  sense, 
Or  a  mowt  'a  tauken  Roblna — a  niver  mended  a  fence: 
But  RodnraolKhty  a  moost  tailke  meH  an'  taAke  ma  now 
Wi'  auf  Ibo  cows  to  cauve  an'  Thomaby  holms  to  plow ! 

XIV. 

LooSk  'ow  qnoloty  amoiles  when  they  ecci  ma  a  passin'  by, 

Saya  to  tbessen  naw  doot  "  what  a  mon  a  be  sewer-ly  1" 

For  they  knaws  what  I  bean  to  Squoire  sin  fust  a  comed  to  the  'AU ; 

I  done  my  duty  by  Squoire  an'  I  done  my  duty  by  alL 

XV. 

Squoire  *8  In  Lunnon,  an'  snmmnn  I  reckons  'ull  'a  to  wrolte, 
For  who  's  to  howd  the  loud  aler  men  thot  muddles  ma  quoit; 
Sartin^eewer  I  beS,  thot  a  weiiiit  niver  jrive  It  to  Joiiues, 
Kolther  a  mount  to  Robins — a  niver  remblcs  the  stoans. 

XVI. 

But  snmmnn  'nil  come  ater  me5  mayhap  wl'  'Is  kittle  o'  steiim 
Iluzzin'  an'  moAziu'  the  blessed  feulds  wi'  the  DivU'a  oiiu  tcum 
Gin  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  an'  loife  they  says  is  sweet. 
But  gin  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  for  I  couldn  abear  to  see  It. 

XVIL 
What  ntta  stannin'  theer  for,  an'  doesn  bring  ma  the  yaale  ? 
Doctor  's  a  'totllcr,  lass,  and  a  's  liallus  I'  the  owd  taule; 
I  weant  break  rules  for  Doctor,  a  knaws  naw  moor  nor  a  floy ; 
Olt  ma  my  yoiile  I  tell  tha,  an'  gin  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy. 


TITHONUS. 

TuE  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and  fall. 

The  vaiMrs  weep  their  burthen  to  the  ground, 

Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies  beneath. 

And  after  many  a  t-umnicr  dies  the  swan. 

Me  only  cruel  immortality 

Consumes:  I  wither  slowly  in  thine  arms, 

Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 

A  white-hair'd  shadow  roaming  like  a  dream 

The  ever  silent  spaces  of  the  East, 

Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls  of  mom. 

Alas !  for  this  gray  shadow,  once  a  man — 
So  glorious  In  his  beauty  and  thy  choice. 
Who  madeet  him  thy  chosen,  that  he  seem'd 
To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a  Qod ! 
I  ask'd  thee  "Give  me  immortality." 
Then  did'st  thou  grant  mine  asking  with  a  smile. 
Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how  they  gire. 


But  thy  strong  Hours  indiguant  work'd  their  wills. 

And  beat  me  down  and  marred  and  waited  me, 

And  tho'  they  could  not  end  mc,  left  me  malra'd 

To  dwell  In  presence  of  immorUl  youth, 

Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth. 

And  all  I  was,  in  ashes.    Can  thy  love. 

Thy  beauty,  make  amends,  tho'  even  now. 

Close  over  us,  the  silver  star,  thy  guide, 

Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that  till  with  tears 

To  hear  me?    Let  me  go:  Uke  back  thy  gift: 

Why  should  a  man  desire  In  any  way 

To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men. 

Or  pass  l>eyand  the  goal  of  ordinance 

Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most  meet  for  allf 

A  soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart:  there  comes 
A  glimpse  of  tbnt  dark  world  where  I  was  bom. 
Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer  steals 
From  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy  shoulders  pure, 


202 


THE  VOYAGE. 


And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  renew'd. 
Thy  cheek  begins  to  redden  thro'  the  gloom, 
Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close  to  mine, 
Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the  wild  team 
Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke,  arise, 
And  shake  the  darkness  from  their  loosen'd  manes, 
And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of  fire. 

Lo  I  ever  thus  thou  growest  beautiful 
In  silence,  then  before  thine  answer  given 
Departest,  aud  thy  tears  are  on  my  cheek. 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with  thy  lean, 
And  make  me  tremble  lest  a  saying  learnt 
In  days  far-off,  on  that  dark  earth,  be  true  f 
"The  Gods  themselves  cannot  recall  their  gifts." 

Ay  me !  ay  me !  with  what  another  heart 
In  days  far-off,  and  with  what  other  eyes 
I  used  to  watch— if  I  be  he  that  watch'd — 
The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee;  saw 
The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings; 
Changed  with  thy  mystic  change,  and  felt  my  blood 
Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  crimson'd  all 
Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  I  lay, 
Uouth,  forehead,  eyelids,  growing  dewy-warm 
With  kisses  balmier  than  half-opening  bads 
Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that  kies'd 
Whispering  I  knew  not  what  of  wild  and  aweet. 
Like  that  strange  song  I  heard  Apollo  sing, 
While  Ilion  like  a  mist  rose  into  towers. 

Tet  bold  me  not  forever  in  thine  East: 
How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with  thine  f 
Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me,  cold 
Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my  wrinkled  feet 
Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds,  when  the  stenm 
Floats  np  from  those  dim  fields  about  the  homed 
Of  happy  men  tliat  have  the  power  to  die. 
And  grassy  barrows  of  the  happier  dead. 
Release  me,  aud  restore  me  to  the  ground : 
Thou  seust  all  things,  thoa  wilt  see  my  grave ; 
Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  mom  by  mom ; 
I  earth  In  earth  forget  these  empty  courts, 
Aud  thee  returuiug  on  thy  silver  wheels. 


THE  VOYAGE. 
I. 

Wk  left  behind  the  painted  bnoy 

That  tosses  at  the  harbor-mouth; 
And  madly  danced  our  hearts  with  Joy, 

As  fast  we  fleeted  to  the  South: 
How  fresh  was  every  sight  and  sound 

On  open  main  or  winding  shore '. 
We  knew  the  merry  world  was  round. 

And  we  might  sail  forevermore. 

n. 

Warm  broke  the  breeze  against  the  brow. 

Dry  sang  the  tackle,  sang  the  sail : 
The  Lady's-head  upon  the  prow 

Caught  the  shrill  salt,  and  sheer'd  the  gale. 
The  broad  seas  swell'd  to  meet  the  keel, 

And  swept  behmd:  so  quick  the  ran. 
We  felt  the  good  ship  shake  and  reel, 

We  seem'd  to  sail  into  the  Sun ! 

III. 
How  oft  we  saw  the  Sun  retire, 

And  burn  the  threshold  of  the  night. 
Fall  from  his  Ocean-lane  of  fire, 

And  sleep  beneath  his  pillar'd  light  I 
How  oft  the  purple-skirted  robe 

Of  twilight  slowly  downward  drawn, 
As  thro'  the  slumber  of  the  globe 

Again  we  dash'd  into  the  dawu! 


IV. 
New  stars  all  night  above  the  brim 

Of  waters  lighten'd  into  view ; 
They  climb'd  as  quickly,  for  the  rim 

Changed  every  moment  as  we  flew. 
Far  ran  the  naked  moon  across 

The  houseless  ocean's  heaving  field. 
Or  flying  shone,  the  silver  boss 

Of  her  own  halo's  dusky  shield ; 

V. 

The  peaky  islet  shifted  shapes, 

High  towns  ou  hills  were  dimly  seen. 
We  past  long  lines  of  Northern  capes 

And  dewy  Northern  meadows  green. 
We  came  to  warmer  waves,  and  deep 

Across  the  boundless  east  we  drove. 
Where  those  long  swells  of  breaker  sweep 

The  nutmeg  rocks  and  isles  of  clove. 

VI. 

By  peaks  that  flamed,  or,  all  In  shade, 

Gloom'd  the  low  coast  and  quivering  brine 
With  ashy  rains,  that  spreading  made 

Fantastic  plume  or  sable  piue : 
By  sands  and  steaming  flats,  and  floods 

or  mighty  mouth,  we  scudded  fast, 
Aud  hills  and  scarlet-mingled  woods 

Glow'd  for  a  moment  as  we  past. 

VII. 
O  hundred  shores  of  happy  clime^ 

How  swiftly  stream'd  ye  by  the  bark ! 
At  times  the  whole  sea  bnro'd.  at  times 

With  wakes  of  Are  we  tore  the  dark; 
At  times  a  carven  craft  would  shOot 

From  havens  hid  in  foiry  bowers. 
With  naked  limbs  and  flowers  and  fralt. 

But  wo  nor  paaeed  for  fhiits  not  flowers. 

VIII, 
For  one  fair  Vision  ever  fled 

Down  the  waste  waters  day  aud  night. 
And  still  we  follow'd  where  she  led, 

In  hope  to  gain  upon  her  flight 
Her  face  was  evermore  unseen, 

Aud  flxt  upon  the  far  sea-line; 
But  each  man  mnrronr'd,  "O  my  Queen, 

I  follow  till  I  make  thee  mine." 

IX. 

And  now  we  lost  her,  now  she  gleam'd 

Like  Fancy  made  of  golden  air. 
Now  nearer  to  the  prow  she  seem'd 

Like  Virtue  flrm,  like  Knowledge  fair, 
Now  high  on  waves  that  idly  burst 

Like  Heavenly  Hope  she  crown'd  the  sea. 
And  now,  the  bloodless  point  reversed. 

She  bore  the  blade  of  Liberty. 


And  only  one  among  as— him 

We  pleased  not— he  was  seldom  pleased : 
He  saw  not  far:  his  eyes  were  dim: 

But  ours  he  swore  were  all  diseased. 
"A  ship  of  fools,"  he  shriek'd  in  spite, 

"  A  ship  of  fools,"  he  sneer'd  and  wept. 
And  overboard  one  stormy  night 

Be  cast  bis  body,  and  on  we  swept. 

XL 
And  never  sail  of  ours  was  ftirl'd. 

Nor  anchor  dropt  at  eve  or  morn ; 
We  loved  the  glories  of  the  world ; 

But  laws  of  nature  were  our  scorn ; 
For  blasts  would  rise  and  rave  and  cease. 

But  whence  were  those  that  drove  the  sail 
Across  the  whirlwind's  heart  of  peace. 

And  to  and  thro'  the  counter-gale  ? 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CAUTBRETZ.— THE  RINOLET. 


fOS 


XII. 
Aipiln  to  colder  climes  we  came. 

Fur  •till  wo  follow'it  wliore  Klin  ledt 
Now  nintv  Im  blliui  niiii  cnptalii  laino. 

And  hnlf  Iho  crew  arc  nick  «r  dead, 
nut  blind  or  Innic  or  »lck  or  MHind, 

We  follow  thut  which  fliei  before  t 
We  know  the  merry  world  ii  round. 

And  we  miiy  Mil  forerermoro. 


IN  THE  V^VLLEY  OF  CAUTEKI:TZ. 

Ai.i.  alonK  the  valley,  stream  that  flavhcKt  white, 
Deepening  thy  Toice  with  the  deepeaini;  uf  the  night. 
All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters  flow, 
I  walk'd  with  one  I  loved  two  and  thirty  years  ago. 
All  Along  the  valley,  while  I  walk'd  to^lay, 
The  two  and  thirty  years  were  a  mist  that  rolls  away; 
For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy  rocky  bed. 
Thy  living  voice  to  me  was  as  the  voice  of  the  dead, 
And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and  cave  and  tree. 
The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a  living  voice  to  me. 


THE  FLOWER. 

O.NCS  in  a  golden  hour 

I  cast  to  earth  a  seed. 
Up  there  came  a  flower, 

The  people  said,  a  weed. 

To  and  tto  they  went 
Thro'  my  garden-bower. 

And  mattering;  discontent 
Cursed  me  and  my  flower. 

Then  it  grew  so  tall 
It  wore  a  crown  of  light, 

But  thieves  from  o'er  the  wall 
Stole  the  seed  by  night. 

Sow'd  it  far  and  wide 
By  every  town  and  tower. 

Till  all  the  people  cried, 
"  Splendid  is  the  flower." 

Read  my  little  (Able : 
ne  that  mns  may  read. 

Most  can  raise  the  flowers  now, 
For  all  have  got  the  seed. 

And  some  are  pretty  enough. 
And  some  are  poor  indeed; 

And  now  again  the  people 
Call  it  but  a  weed. 


THE  ISLET. 

••WnrnreB,0  whither,  love,  shall  we  go, 
For  a  score  of  sweet  little  summers  or  so?" 
The  sweet  little  wife  of  the  singer  said 
On  the  day  that  follow'd  the  day  she  was  wed : 
'  Whither,  O  whither,  love,  shall  we  go  V 
And  the  singer  shaking  his  cn'rly  head 
Tam'd  as  he  sat,  and  struck  the  keys 
There  at  his  right  with  a  sudden  crash. 
Singing,  "  And  shall  it  be  over  the  seas 
With  a  crew  that  is  neither  rude  nor  rash. 
But  a  bevy  of  Eroees  apple^heek'd. 
In  a  shallop  of  crystal  ivory-beak'd, 
With  a  satin  sail  of  a  mby  glow, 
Tu  a  sweet  little  Eden  on  earth  that  I  know, 
A  mountain  i!>Iet  pointed  and  peak'd ; 
Waves  on  a  diamond  shingle  dash. 


Cataract  brooka  to  the  ocean  mn, 
Fairily.<lolicate  palaces  shine 
MIxt  with  myrtle  and  clad  with  vine. 
And  oventtream'd  and  Rllvery.«treak'd 
With  many  a  rivulet  high  against  the  San 
The  fticets  of  the  gloriona  monntaln  flaah 
Above  the  valleys  of  palm  and  pine" 

"  Thither,  O  thither,  love,  let  na  ga** 

"No,  no,  no! 

For  in  all  that  exquisite  Isle,  my  dear. 

There  is  but  one  bird  with  a  musical  throatt 

And  his  compass  Is  but  of  a  single  note, 

That  it  makes  one  weary  to  hear." 

"Mock  me  not  1  mock  me  not!  love,  let  lu  ga" 

"No,  love,  na 

For  the  bud  ever  breaks  into  bloom  on  the  tree, 
And  a  storm  never  wakes  on  the  lonely  sea. 
And  a  worm  Is  there  in  the  lonely  wood. 
That  pierces  the  liver  and  blackens  the  blood. 
And  makes  It  a  sorrow  to  be." 


REQUIESCAT. 

Faie  Is  her  cottage  in  its  place. 

Where  yon  broad  water  sweetly  slowly  glides. 
It  sees  itself  from  thatcli  to  base  * 

Dream  in  the  sliding  tides. 

And  fairer  she,  but  ah,  how  soon  to  die ! 

Ilcr  quiet  dream  of  life  this  hour  may  cease. 
Her  peaceful  being  slowly  passes  by 
-  To  some  more  perfect  peace. 


THE  SAILOR-BOY. 

na  rose  at  dawn  and,  flred  with  hope. 
Shot  o'er  the  seething  hiirbor-bar. 

And  reach'd  the  ship  and  caught  the  rope, 
And  whistled  to  the  moruiug  star. 

And  while  he  whistled  long  and  loud 
He  heard  a  fierce  mermaiden  cry, 

"O  Boy,  tho'  thou  art  young  and  prond, 
I  see  the  place  where  thou  wilt  lie. 

"The  sands  and  yeasty  surges  mix 

In  caves  about  the  dreary  bay. 
And  on  thy  ribs  the  limpet  sticks. 

And  lu  thy  heart  the  scrawl  shall  play." 

"Fool,"  he  answer'd,  "death  Is  sure 
To  those  that  stay  and  those  that  roam. 

But  I  will  nevermore  endure 
To  sit  with  empty  hands  at  home. 

"My  mother  clings  about  my  neck. 
My  sisters  crying,  'Stay,  for  shame;' 

My  father  raves  of  death  and  wreck. 
They  are  all  to  blame,  they  are  all  to  blama. 

"  Ood  help  me !  save  I  take  my  part 

Of  danger  on  the  roaring  sea, 
A  devil  rises  in  my  heart. 

Far  worse  than  any  death  to  me." 


THE  RINGLET. 

"Yora  ringlets,  your  ringlets. 
That  look  so  golden-gay, 

If  yon  will  give  nie  one,  but  one, 
To  ki»s  it  night  and  day, 


204 


A  WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA.— A  DEDICATION. 


Then  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Will  turn  it  gilver-gray; 
And  then  ehall  I  know  it  is  nil  true  gold 
To  flame  and  sparkle  and  stream  as  of  old, 
Till  all  the  comets  in  heaven  are  cold, 

And  all  her  stars  decay." 
"  Then  take  it,  love,  and  put  it  by ; 
This  cannot  change,  nor  yet  can  I." 


"My  ringlet,  my  ringlet. 

That  art  so  golden-gay. 
Now  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Can  turn  thee  silver-gray; 
And  a  lad  may  wink,  aud  a  girl  may  bint, 

And  a  fool  may  say  his  say; 
For  my  doubts  aud  fears  were  all  amiss, 
And  I  swear  henceforth  by  this  and  ihLJ, 
That  a  doubt  will  only  come  for  a  kis», 

And  a  feiir  to  be  kiss'd  away." 
"  Then  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by : 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  L" 


0  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  kiss'd  you  night  aud  day. 
And  Ringlet,  O  Kinglet, 

You  still  ure  goldun-gay. 
But  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 
*  You  should  be  silver-gray: 
For  what  is  this  which  now  I  'm  told, 

1  that  took  you  for  true  gold. 

She  that  gave  you  'h  bought  and  sold, 
Sold,  sold. 


O  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

She  blush'd  a  rosy  red. 
When  Kinglet,  O  Kinglet, 

She  dipt  you  from  her  bead. 
And  Ringlet,  O  Kinglet, 

She  gave  you  me,  aud  said, 
"  Come,  kiss  it,  love,  aud  put  It  by  : 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  I." 
O  He,  you  golden  noticing,  lie 

You  golden  lie. 

S. 
O  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  count  you  much  to  blame, 
For  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

Yon  put  me  much  to  shame. 
So  Kinglet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  doom  you  to  the  flame. 
For  what  is  this  which  now  I  learn, 
lias  given  all  my  faith  a  turn  T 
Bum,  you  glossy  heretic,  bum, 
Burn,  bum. 


A  WELCOME  TO  ALEX^VNDRA. 

March  7, 18G3. 

Ska-kinos*  daughter  firom  over  the  sea, 

Alexandra ! 

Saxon  and  Norman  and  Dane  are  we. 

But  all  of  us  Danes  in  our  welcome  of  thee, 

Alexandra ! 

Welcome  her,  thunders  of  fort  and  of  fleet ! 

Welcome  her,  thundering  cheer  of  the  street ! 

Welcome  her,  all  things  youthful  and  sweet. 

Scatter  tlie  blossom  uuder  her  feet! 

Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flowers ! 

Make  music,  O  bird,  in  the  new-budded  bowers ! 

Blazon  your  mottoes  of  blessing  and  prayer  ! 

Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that  is  ours ! 


Warble,  O  bugle,  and  trompet,  blare ! 
Flags,  flutter  out  upon  turrets  and  towers ! 
Flames,  on  the  windy  headland  flare  I 
Utter  your  jubilee,  steeple  and  spire  ! 
Clash,  ye  bells,  in  the  merry  March  air ! 
Flash,  ye  cities,  in  rivers  of  Are ! 
Rush  to  the  roof,  sudden  rocket,  and  liigher 
Melt  into  the  stare  for  the  land's  desire ! 
Roll  aud  rejoice,  jubilant  voice. 
Roil  as  a  ground-swell  dash'd  on  the  strand, 
Rodr  as  the  sea  when  he  welcomes  tlic  land. 
And  welcome  her,  welcome  the  laud's  desire. 
The  sea-kings'  daughter  as  happy  as  fair, 
Blissful  bride  of  a  blissful  heir. 
Bride  of  the  heir  of  the  kings  of  the  sea— 
O  Joy  to  the  people,  aud  Joy  to  the  tlurone. 
Come  to  us,  love  us,  and  make  us  your  own  r 
For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we. 
Teuton  or  Celt,  or  whatever  we  be. 
We  are  each  all  Dane  in  our  welcome  of  thee, 

Alexandra ! 


ODE  SUNG  AT  THE  OPENING  OF  THE 
INTERNATIONAL  EXHIBITION. 

UrLirr  a  thousand  voices  full  and  sweet, 
In  tbU  wide  hall  with  earth's  invention  stored. 
And  praise  tb'  invisible  nniversal  Lord, 

VTho  lets  once  more  in  peace  the  nations  meet, 
When  Science,  Art,  and  Labor  have  ontpour'd 

Their  myriad  borua  of  plenty  at  our  feet. 

O  silent  father  of  onr  Kings  to  be 

Moura'd  in  this  golden  hour  of  jubilee. 

For  this,  for  all,  we  weep  our  thanks  to  tbec ! 

The  world-compelling  plan  was  thine. 

And  lo!  the  long  laborious  miles, 

Of  Palace ;  lo !  the  giant  aisles. 

Rich  in  model  and  design ; 

Ilarvcst-tool  and  husbandry. 

Loom  and  wheel  and  engiu'ry, 

Secrets  of  the  sullen  mine. 

Steel  and  gold,  and  com  and  wine, 

Fabric  rough,  or  Fairy  flue. 

Sunny  tokens  of  the  Line, 

Polar  man-els,  and  a  feast 

Of  wonder  out  of  West  and  East, 

And  shapes  and  hues  of  Art  divine ! 

All  of  beauty,  all  of  use. 

That  one  fair  planet  can  prodnce. 

Brought  from  under  every  star. 
Blown  fi-om  over  every  main. 
And  mixt,  as  life  is  mixt  with  pnin. 

The  works  of  peace  with  works  of  war. 

O  ye,  the  wise  who  think,  the  wise  who  reign. 
From  growing  commerce  loose  her  latest  chain, 
And  let  the  fair  white-winged  peacemaker  fly 
To  happy  havens  under  all  the  sky, 
Aud  mix  the  seasons  and  the  golden  hours. 
Till  each  man  flnds  his  own  in  all  men's  good, 
And  all  men  work  in  noble  brotherhood, 
Breaking  their  mailed  fleets  and  armed  towers. 
And  ruling  by  obeying  Nature's  powers. 
And  gathering  aM  the  fruits  of  peace  and  crowud 
with  all  her  flowers. 


A  DEDICATION. 

Dear,  near  and  trne— no  truer  Time  himself 
C;an  prove  you,  tho'  he  make  yon  evermore 
Dearer  and  nearer,  as  the  rapid  of  life 
Shoots  to  the  fall— take  this,  and  pray  that  be, 


THE  CAPTAIN.— TIUIEE  SONNETS  TO  A  CX)QUETTE.— ON  A  MOUUNKR.     mi 


Who  wrote  It,  hnnortni;  yonr  RWMt  Aifth  In  him, 
Hay  tru»t  himxrir;  mid  nplic  of  pralM  and  0<:orn, 
A*  one  who  (bels  the  imnioninrabte  world, 
Atinin  the  wlxe  ludinrcronrr  of  the  wIm; 
And  iiftpr  Atiiiitiin  |>ni<t— 1(  left  to  paw 
lilM  niiiiinin  liitu  Kcciiiiii);-lfnl1cM  day*— 
I>m\v  toward  the  lonir  Mroet  and  lungeat  nlsht, 
Wrnrin;;  bl«  wUdum  lightly,  like  the  fhilt 
Which  in  uur  winter  woodland  looka  a  flower.* 


THE  CA1»TAIN. 

A    LKGENt)  OF   THE    NAVV. 

Ha  that  only  mica  by  terror 

Docth  prlcvous  wniiip. 
Deep  as  Hell  1  count  hin  error, 

Let  him  hear  my  aong. 
BraTe  the  Captain  was :  the  rcamea 

Made  a  gallant  crew, 
Gallant  eons  of  Knglieh  freemen, 

Bailors  bold  and  true. 
Bnt  they  hated  hii<  oppression, 

Stem  he  was  and  rash; 
So  for  every  light  tranf^jreaslon 

Doom'd  them  to  the  In^h. 
Day  by  day  more  harsh  and  cruel 

Sccm'd  the  CaplainV  mood. 
Secret  wrath  like  smolhcr'd  fuel 

Burnt  in  each  man's  blood. 
Yet  he  hoped  to  purchase  glory, 

Hoped  to  moke  the  name 
Of  his  vessel  great  In  story, 

Wheresoe'cr  he  came. 
So  they  past  by  capes  and  islands, 

Many  a  harbor-mouth, 
Sailing  under  palmy  highlands 

Far  within  the  Sontlu 
On  a  day  when  they  were  going 

O'er  the  louc  expanse. 
In  the  North,  her  canvas  flowing. 

Rose  a  ship  of  France. 
Then  the  Captain's  color  heighten'd 

Joyful  came  his  speech: 
Bnt  a  cloudy  gladness  lightcn'd 

In  the  eyes  of  each. 
"Chase,"  he  said:  the  ship  flew  forward,     * 

And  the  wind  did  blow; 
Stately,  lightly,  went  she  Norward, 

Till  she  uenr'd  the  foe. 
Then  they  look'd  at  him  they  hated, 

Had  what  they  desired : 
Mute  with  folded  arms  they  waited— 

Not  a  gun  was  flred. 
Bnt  they  heard  the  foemnn's  thunder 

Roaring  out  their  doom ; 
All  the  air  was  torn  in  sunder, 

Crashing  went  the  boom. 
Spars  were  splinter'd,  decks  were  shatler'd^ 
.  Bullets  fel:  like  rain ; 
Over  mast  and  deck  were  scatter'd 

Blood  and  brains  of  men. 
Spars  were  splinter'd:  decks  were  broken: 

Every  mother's  son — 
Down  they  dropt— no  word  was  si>oken— 

Each  beside  his  gun. 
On  the  decks  as  they  were  lying. 

Were  their  faces  grim. 
In  their  blood,  as  they  lay  dying, 

Did  they  smile  on  him. 
Those,  in  whom  he  had  reliance 

For  his  noble  name. 
With  one  smile  of  still  defiance 

Sold  him  unto  shame, 
^ame  and  wTath  his  heart  confounded. 

Pale  he  tnrn'd  and  red. 


I  TTit  fmit  cf  ih»  Spln<lle-tr»»  ( gnmfif  Kmr*t^f). 


Till  himself  %raa  dewlly  wounded 

Falling  on  the  dead. 
Dismal  error!    fcarfhl  slaughter! 

Years  have  wander'd  by, 
Bide  by  side  beneath  the  water 

Crew  and  Captain  lie ; 
There  the  sunlli  ocean  toaMt 

O'er  them  mouldering. 
And  the  lonely  scabird  croesot 

With  one  waft  of  the  wing. 


THREE  SONNETS  TO  A  COQUETTE. 

CAKKSs'n  or  chidden  by  the  dainty  hand. 

And  singing  airy  trifles  this  or  that. 
Light  IIo|)e  at  Beauty's  call  would  perch  and  stni  il. 

And  run  thro'  every  change  of  sharp  and  flat: 

And  Fancy  came  and  at  her  pillow  sat. 
When  Sleep  had  bound  her  in  his  n)sy  band, 

And  chased  away  the  still-recnrring  gnat. 
And  woke  her  with  a  lay  from  fairy  land. 
But  now  they  live  with  Beauty  less  and  less, 

For  Hope  is  other  Hope  and  wanders  flir, 
Nor  caret  to  lisp  lu  love's  dellclons  creeds; 
And  Fancy  watchea  in  the  wildeniess. 

Poor  Fancy  sadder  than  a  single  star. 
That  sets  at  twilight  in  a  land  of  rceda. 


The  form,  the  form  alone  is  eloquent  I 
A  nobler  yenrniiig  never  broke  her  rest 
Than  but  to  dance  and  sing,  be  gayly  drest, 
And  win  nil  eyes  with  nil  accomplishment: 
Yet  in  the  waltzing-circle  as  we  went. 
My  fancy  made  me  for  a  moment  blest 
To  And  my  heart  so  near  the  beauteous  breast 
That  once  had  power  to  drob  it  of  content. 
A  moment  came  the  tenderness  of  tears. 
The  phantom  of  a  wish  that  once  could  move, 
A  ghost  of  passion  that  no  smiles  restore— 
For  ah  1  the  slight  coquette,  she  cannot  love, 
And  if  you  kiss'd  her  feet  a  thousand  years, 

She  still  would  take  the  praise,  and  care  no 
more. 

3. 
Wan  Sculptor,  weepcst  thou  to  take  the  cast 
Of  those  dead  lineaments  that  near  thee  lief 

0  sorrowest  thou,  pole  Painter,  for  the  pa*t. 

In  painting  some  dead  friend  from  memory? 
Weep  on :  beyond  his  object  Love  can  last : 

His  object  lives:  more  cause  to  weep  have  I: 
My  tears,  no  tears  of  love,  arc  flowing  fast. 

No  tears  of  love,  bnt  tears  that  Love  con  die. 

1  pledge  her  not  in  any  cheerful  cup. 

Nor  care  to  sit  beside  her  where  slie  sits— 
Ah  pity— hint  it  not  in  human  tones, 
Bnt  breathe  it  into  earth  and  close  it  up 
With  secret  death  forever,  in  the  ]Ata 
Which  some  green  Christmas  crams  with  weary 
bones. 


ON  A  MOURNEU. 

Natcuk,  so  far  as  in  her  lies, 
Imitates  God,  and  turns  her  face 

To  every  land  beneath  the  skies. 
Counts  nothing  that  she  meets  with  base. 
But  lives  and  loves  la  every  pbirc; 


Fills  out  the  homely  quick-set  screens, 
And  makes  the  purple  lilac  ripe, 

Steps  from  her  airy  hill,  and  greens 
The  swamp,  where  hums  the  dropping  snipe. 
With  moss  and  braided  mari>h-p!pe. 


206 


SONGS.— BO^VDICEA. 


And  ou  thy  heart  a  finger  lays, 
Saying,  "Beat  quicker,  for  the  time 

Is  pleasant,  and  the  woods  and  ways 
Are  pleasant,  and  the  beech  and  lime 
Put  forth  and  feel  a  gladder  clime." 


And  murmurs  of  a  deeper  voice, 
Going  before  to  some  far  shrine. 

Teach  that  sick  heart  the  stronger  choice. 
Till  all  thy  life  one  way  incline 
With  one  wide  will  that  closes  thine. 


And  when  the  zoning  eve  has  died 
Where  yon  dark  valleys  wind  forlorn, 

Come  Hope  and  Memory,  spouse  and  bride, 
From  out  the  borders  of  the  mora, 
With  that  fair  child  betwixt  them  born. 

0. 

And  when  no  mortal  motion  Jars 
The  blackness  round  the  tombing  sod, 

Thro'  silence  and  the  trembling  stars 
Comes  Faith  from  tracts  no  feet  have  trod, 
And  Virtae,  like  a  honsehold  god, 


Promising  empire :  such  as  those 
That  once  at  dead  of  night  did  greet 


Troy's  wandering  prince,  so  that  he  rose 
With  sacrifice,  while  all  the  fleet 
Had  rest  by  stony  hills  of  Crete. 


SONG. 

Ladt,  let  the  rolling  drums 
JBeat  to  battle  where  thy  warrior  stands : 

Now  thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes. 
And  gives  the  battle  to  bis  hands. 

Lady,  let  the  trumpets  blow. 
Clasp  thy  little  babes  about  thy  knee: 

Now  their  warrior  father  meets  the  foe, 
And  strikes  him  dead  fur  thine  and  thee. 


SONG. 

IIoMB  they  brought  him  slain  with  spears. 

They  brought  him  home  at  even-fall: 
Ail  alone  she  sits  and  bears 

Echoes  in  his  empty  ball, 

Soonding  on  the  morrow. 

The  Sun  peep'd  In  from  open  field. 
The  boy  began  to  leap  and  prance, 
Rode  upon  his  father's  lance. 

Beat  u{M)n  his  father's  shield— 

*'  O  hu*h,  my  joy,  my  sorrow." 


EXPERIMENTS. 

BOADICfiA. 

WniLK  about  the  shore  of  Mona  those  Ncroniau  legionaries 
Burnt  and  broke  the  grove  and  altar  of  the  Dniid  and  Druidess, 
Far  in  the  east  Bofidici^'a,  standing  loftily  charioted, 
Had  and  niaddeulng  all  that  heard  her  In  her  fierce  volubility. 
Girt  by  half  the  tribes  of  Britain,  near  the  colony  Cimulodune. 
Yell'd  and  shriek'd  between  her  daughters  o'er  a  wild  confederacy. 

"They  that  scorn  the  tribes  and  call  us  Britain's  barbarous  populaces^ 
Did  they  hear  me,  would  they  listen,  did  they  pity  me  supplicating  r 
Shall  I  heed  them  in  their  anguish  ?  shall  I  brook  to  be  supplicated  i 
Hear  Icenian,  Caticuchlanian,  hear  Corltaniau,  Triuobant ! 
Must  their  ever-ravening  eagle's  beak  and  talon  annihilate  us  ? 
Tear  the  noble  heart  of  Britain,  leave  it  gorily  quivering? 
Bark  an  answer,  Britain's  raven !  bark  and  blacken  innumerable, 
Blacken  round  the  Roman  carrion,  make  the  carcass  a  skeleton. 
Kite  and  kestrel,  wolf  and  wolfkln,  from  the  wilderness,  wallow  in  it, 
Till  the  face  of  Bel  be  brightcn'd,  Taranis  l)c  propitiated. 
Lo  their  colony  half-defended !  lo  their  colony,  Cumulodiinc ! 
There  the  horde  of  Roman  robbers  rooc^  at  a  barbarous  adversary. 
There  the  hive  of  Roman  liars  worship  a  gluttonous  empcror-idlot. 
Such  is  Rome,  and  this  her  deity :  hear  it.  Spirit  of  C^ssivClaun  t 

"  Hear  it,  Gods  I  the  Gods  have  heard  it,  O  Icenian,  O  Coritanlan  1 
Doubt  not  ye  the  Gods  have  answer'd,  Caticuchlanian,  TrinobanU 
These  have  told  us  all  their  anger  in  miraculous  utterances. 
Thunder,  a  flying  fire  In  heaven,  a  murmur  heard  aerially. 
Phantom  sound  of  blows  descending,  moan  of  an  enemy  massacred. 
Phantom  wail  of  women  and  children,  multitudinous  agonies. 
Bloodily  flow'd  tbe  Tamesa  rolling  phantom  bodies  of  horses  and  men ; 
Then  a  phantom  colony  snioulder'd  on  the  refluent  estuary; 
Lastly  yonder  yester-even,  suddenly  giddily  tottering — 
There  was  one  who  watch'd  and  told  me— down  their  statue  of  Victory  tell. 
Lo  their  precions  Roman  bantling,  lo  the  colony  Camnlodune, 
Shall  we  teach  it  a  Roman  lesson?  shall  we  care  to  be  pitiful T 
Shall  we  deal  with  it  as  an  infant  f  shall  we  dandle  it  amorously  ? 

"Hear  Icenian,  Caticuchlanian,  hear  Contanlan,  TrinobantI 
While  I  roved  about  the  forest,  long  and  bitterly  meditating, 


IN  QUANTITY. 


207 


Ttaer*  I  beard  UMm  In  Um  «Urka«M,  at  the  myatlcal  oenmony, 

LooMljr  robed  in  flying  raiment,  aang  tbe  terrible  propheleeaea. 

*  Fear  not,  isle  of  blowing  woodland,  tile  of  •llrery  parapets  I 

Thu'  iho  Itomau  ea^le  •Imdow  thrr,  thu'  the  cnthcrltiic  enemy  narrow  tbee, 

Thou  Bhnlt  wax  and  he  shall  dwlixlk',  ihuu  aliall  bo  the  nil|{bly  cue  yell 

Ttiinc  the  liberty,  thine  Uie  Rlury,  ihliie  the  deeds  to  be  celebrated, 

Thine  the  myrind-rullInK  ocean,  llcht  and  shadow  illimllable, 

Thine  the  lauds  of  InstltiK  summer,  many-bUiesomiug  I'aradisea, 

Thine  the  North  and  (hine  tli;  South  and  thine  the  battle^under  of  Qod.' 

Su  th<\v  chanted:   how  shall  llrllain  ll;:hl  upon  augoriea  happier f 

So  they  chaulcd  lu  tlio  darkness,  and  there  cumeth  a  victory  now. 

"  Hear  Icenian,  Catienchlanian,  hear  Coritanlan,  Trlnobont ! 
Me  the  wiDs  of  rich  Praaatagns,  me  the  lover  of  liberty, 
lie  they  setaed  and  me  they  tortured,  me  they  lash'd  and  bumiliated, 
Xe  the  sport  of  ribald  Veterans,  mine  of  rufllau  violators ! 
See  they  sit,  tbey  hide  their  faces,  miserable  in  ignominy  I 
Wherefore  in  me  burns  au  an^r,  not  by  blood  to  be  satiated. 
Lo  the  palaces  and  the  temple,  lo  the  colony  Ciiniutodiino  I 
There  tbey  ruled,  and  thence  they  wasted  all  the  flouHKhlng  territory, 
Thither  at  their  will  they  baled  the  yellow-rlu):lctcd  Uritoncss— 
Bloodily,  bloodily  fall  the  battle-axe,  unexhausted,  iucxorable. 
Shont  Icenian,  Catieuchlantan,  shout  Coritanlan,  Trinobant, 
Till  the  victim  hear  within  and  yearn  to  hurry  precipitously 
Like  the  leaf  in  a  ronriu);  whirlwind,  like  the  smnkc  in  a  hurricane  whlrl'd. 
Lo  the  colony,  there  they  rioted  in  the  city  of  Cunobclinc  f 
There  tbey  drank  in  caps  of  emerald,  there  at  tables  of  ebony  lay, 
Rolling  on  their  purple  conches  in  their  tender  effeminacy. 
There  they  dwelt  and  there  they  rioted ;  there— there— they  dwell  no  more. 
Burst  the  gates,  and  burn  the  pnlacc^  break  the  works  of  the  stntaary. 
Take  the  hoary  Roman  head  and  shatter  it,  hold  it  abominable, 
Cut  the  Roman  boy  to  pieces  in  his  lust  and  ToluptuonsncHS, 
Lash  the  maiden  into  swoouio^,  me  they  lash'd  and  humiliated, 
Chop  the  breasts  f^om  off  the  mother,  dash  the  brains  of  the  little  one  out. 
Up  my  Britons,  on  my  chariot,  on  my  chargers,  trample  them  under  us." 

So  the  Queen  Bo.1dia^a,  standing  loftily  charioted, 
Brandishing  iu  her  hand  a  dart  and  rolling  glances  lioness-like, 
Yelled  aud  shrieked  between  her  daughters  iu  her  fierce  volability. 
Till  her  people  all  around  tiic  royal  chariot  agitated, 
Madly  dash'd  the  darts  together,  writhing  barl)arou8  llncuments. 
Made  the  noise  of  frosty  woodlands,  when  they  shiver  in  January, 
Roar'd  as  when  the  roiling  breakers  boom  and  blanch  on  the  precipices, 
Yell'd  as  when  the  winds  of  winter  tear  an  oak  on  a  promontory. 
So  the  silent  colony  hearing  her  tumultuous  adversaries 
Clash  the  darts  and  on  the  buckler  lieat  with  rapid  unanimous  baud. 
Thought  on  all  her  evil  tyrannies,  ail  her  pitiless  avarice. 
Till  she  felt  the  heart  within  her  fall  and  flutter  tremulously. 
Then  her  pulses  at  the  clamoring  of  her  enemy  fainted  away. 
Out  of  evil  evil  flourishes,  out  of  tyranny  tyranny  buds. 
Ran  the  land  with  Roman  slaughter,  multitudinous  agonies. 
PcHsh'd  many  a  maid  and  matron,  many  a  valorous  legionary. 
Fell  tbe  colony,  city  aud  citadel,  Loudon,  Verulam,  C4mnlodune. 


IN  QUAXTITT. 
javtos. 
Aleaie*. 

O  mcnTT-xouTn'o  inventor  of  harmonics, 
O  skill'd  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 
God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 
Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  agea , 
Whose  TiUn  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
Starr'd  from  Jehovah's  gorgeous  armories, 
Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 
Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  onset — 
Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness. 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  mnrmuriui;. 
And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 
Charm,  as  a  wanderer  out  in  ocean. 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
Streams  o'er  a  rich  ambrosial  ocean  isle. 
And  crimson-hued  tbe  stately  palmwoods 
Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of  even. 


HendeetuyllabieB. 
O  voc  cboms  of  indolent  reviewers, 
Irresponsible,  indolent  reviewers. 
Look,  I  come  to  the  test,  a  tiny  poem 
All  composed  in  a  metre  of  Catullus, 
All  in  quantity,  careful  of  my  motion. 
Like  the  skater  on  ice  that  hardly  bears  him. 
Lest  I  fall  unawares  before  the  people, 
Waking  laughter  in  indolent  reviewers. 
Should  I  flounder  awhile  without  a  tumble 
Thro'  this  metriflcation  of  Catullus, 
Tliey  should  speak  to  me  not  without  a  welcome, 
All  that  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers. 
Hard,  bard,  hard  is  it,  only  not  to  tnmble. 
So  fontastical  is  the  dainty  metre. 
Wherefore  slight  me  not  wholly,  nor  believe  me 
Too  presumptuous,  indolent  reviewers. 
O  blatant  Magazines,  regard  me  rather— 
Since  I  blush  to  belaud  myself  a  moment— 
As  some  rare  little  rose,  a  piece  of  inmost 
Horticultural  art,  or  half  coquette-like 
Maiden,  not  to  be  greeted  nnbenignly. 


208 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


SPECIMEN  OF  A  TRANSLATION  OF 
THE  ILIAD  IN  BLANK  VERSE. 

So  Hector  said,  and  sea-like  roar'd  his  host; 
Then  loosed  their  sweating  horses  from  the  yoke 
And  each  beside  his  chariot  bound  his  own ; 
And  oxen  from  the  city,  and  goodly  sheep 
In  haste  they  drove,  and  honey-hearted  wine 
And  bread  from  out  the  houses  bronght,  and  heap'd 
Their  firewood,  and  the  winds  from  off  the  plain 
KoU'd  the  rich  vapor  far  into  the  heaven. 
And  these  all  night  upon  the  'bridge  of  war 
Sat  glorying;  many  a  fire  before  them  blazed: 


As  when  in  heaven  the  stars  about  the  moon 
Look  beautiful,  when  all  the  winds  are  laid. 
And  every  height  comes  out,  and  jutting  peak 
And  valley,  and  the  immeasurable  heavens 
Break  open  to  their  highest,  and  all  the  stars 
Shine,  and  the  Shepherd  gladdens  in  his  heart: 
So  many  a  fire  between  the  ships  and  stream 
Of  Xanthus  blazed  before  the  towers  of  Troy, 
A  tho]^aud  on  the  plain ;  and  close  by  each 
Sat  fifty  in  the  blaze  of  burning  fire ; 
And  champing  golden  grain,  the  horses  stood 
Hard  by  their  chariots,  waiting  for  the  dawn.* 

Iliad,  viiL  W2-W;i. 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


LeoDOGBAN,  the  King  of  Caraeliard, 
Had  one  fair  daughter,  and  none  other  child ; 
And  she  was  fairest  of  ail  flesh  on  earth, 
Guinevere,  and  in  her  his  one  delight 

For  many  a  petty  king  ere  Arthur  came 
Ruled  in  this  isle,  and  ever  waging  war 
Each  upon  other,  wasted  all  the  land ; 
And  still  from  time  to  time  the  heathen  host 
Swarm'd  overseas,  and  harried  what  was  left. 
And  BO  there  grew  great  tracts  of  wilderness, 
Wherein  the  beast  was  erer  more  and  more, 
But  man  was  less  and  less,  till  Arthur  came. 
For  first  Aurelins  lived  and  fongbt  and  died. 
And  after  him  King  Uther  fonght  and  died. 
But  either  fail'd  to  make  the  kingdom  one. 
And  after  these  King  Arthur  for  a  space. 
And  thro'  the  puissance  of  his  Table  Round, 
Drew  all  their  petty  princedoms  nnder  him, 
Their  king  and  head,  and  made  a  realm,  and  rcign'd. 

And  thus  the  land  of  Cameliard  was  waste. 
Thick  with  wet  woods,  and  many  a  beast  therein. 
And  none  or  few  to  scare  or  chase  the  beast; 
So  that  wild  dog  and  wolf  and  boar  and  bear 
Came  night  and  day,  and  rooted  in  the  fields. 
And  wallow'd  in  the  gardens  of  the  king. 
And  ever  and  anon  the  wolf  would  steal 
The  children  and  devour,  but  now  and  then, 
Her  own  brood  lost  or  dead,  lent  her  fierce  tent 
To  human  sucklings ;  and  the  children,  honied 
In  her  foul  den,  there  at  their  meat  would  growl 
And  mock  their  foster-mother  on  fonr  fi-et. 
Till,  straighteu'd,  they  grew  up  to  wolf-like  men, 
Worse  than  the  wolves:  and  King  Leodogran 
Groan'd  for  the  Roman  legions  hero  again. 
And  Ciesar's  eagle:  then  his  brother  king, 
Riencc,  assail'd  him :  last  a  heathen  horde 
Reddening  the  sun  with  smoke  and  earth  with  blood. 
And  on  the  spike  that  split  the  mother's  heart 
Spitting  the  child,  brake  on  him,  till,  amazed. 
He  knew  not  whither  he  should  turn  for  aid. 

But  —  for  he  heard  of  Arthur  newly  crown'd, 
Tho'  not  without  an  uproar  made  by  those 
Who  cried,  "He  is  not  Uther's  son"  — the  king 
Sent  to  him,  saying,  "Arise,  and  help  ns  thou! 
For  here  between  the  man  and  beast  we  die." 

And  Arthur  yet  had  done  no  deed  of  arms. 
But  heard  the  call,  and  came :  and  Guinevere 
Stood  by  the  castle  walls  to  watch  him  pass ; 
But  since  he  neither  wore  on  helm  or  shield 
The  golden  symbol  of  his  kinglihood. 
But  rode  a  simple  knight  among  his  knights. 
And  many  of  these  in  richer  arms  than  he. 
She  saw  him  not,  or  mark'd  not,  if  she  saw. 
One  among  many,  tho'  his  face  was  bare. 
But  Arthnr,  looking  downward  as  he  past. 
Felt  the  light  of  her  eyes  into  his  life 
Smite  on  the  sudden,  yet  rode  on,  and  pitch 'd 


His  tents  beside  the  forest :  and  he  drove 
The  heathen,  and  be  slew  the  beast,  and  fell'd 
The  forest,  and  let  in  the  sun,  and  made 
Broad  pathways  for  the  hunter  and  the  knight. 
And  so  returned. 

For  while  he  linger'd  there, 
A  doubt  that  ever  smouldcr'd  in  the  hearts 
Of  those  great  Lords  and  Barons  of  his  realm 
Flash'd  forth  and  Into  war:  for  most  of  these 
Made  bead  against  him,  crying, "  Who  is  he 
That  he  should  rule  nsf  who  hath  proven  him 
King  Uther's  son  T  for  lo !  we  look  at  him. 
And  find  nor  face  nor  bearing,  limbs  nor  voice. 
Are  like  to  those  of  Uther  whom  we  knew. 
This  is  the  eon  of  Gorlols,  not  the  king. 
This  is  the  son  of  Anton,  not  the  king." 

And  Arthur,  passing  thence  to  battle,  felt 
Travail,  and  throes,  and  agonies  of  the  life. 
Desiring  to  be  Join'd  with  Guinevere.; 
And  thinking  as  he  rode,  "Her  father  said 
That  there  between  the  man  and  beast  they  die. 
Shall  1  not  lift  her  from  this  land  of  beasts 
Up  to  my  throne,  and  side  by  side  with  me  ? 
\^niat  happiness  to  reign  a  lonely  king, 
Vext  — O  ye  stars  that  shudder  over  me, 

0  earth,  that  soundest  hollow  under  me  — 
Vext  with  waste  dreams  ?  for  saving  I  be  Jo'u'd 
To  her  that  is  the  fairest  nnder  heaven, 

1  seem  as  nothing  In  the  mighty  world. 
And  cannot  will  my  will,  nor  work  my  work 
Wholly,  nor  make  myself  in  mine  own  realm 
Victor  and  lord ;  but  were  I  join'd  with  her, 
Then  might  we  live  together  as  one  life. 
And  reigning  wkh  one  will  in  everything 
Have  power  on  this  dark  land  to  lighten  it, 
And  power  on  this  dead  world  to  make  it  live." 

And  Arthur  from  the  field  of  battle  sent 
riflns,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere, 
His  new-made  knights,  to  King  Leodogran, 
Swying,  "  If  I  in  aught  have  served  thee  well. 
Give  me  thy  daughter  Guinevere  to  wife." 

Whom  when  he  heard,  Leodogran  in  heart 
j  Debating— "How  should  I  that  am  a  king, 
However  much  he  holp  me  at  my  need, 
Give  my  one  daughter  saving  to  a  king. 
And  a  king's  son"  — lifted  his  voice,  and  call'd 
A  hoary  man,  his  chamberlain,  to  whom 
He  trusted  all  things,  and  of  him  required 
His  counsel :  "  Knowest  thou  anght  of  Arthur's  birth  ?" 

Then  spake  the  hoary  chamberlain  and  said, 
"Sir  King,  there  be  but  two  old  men  that  know: 
And  each  is  twice  as  old  as  I ;  and  one 
Is  Merlin,  the  wise  man  that  ever  served 
King  Uther  thro'  his  magic  art ;  and  one 
Is  Meriin's  master  (so  they  call  him),  Bleys, 


•  Or,  ridge. 


•  Or  mor*  literm'ily,— 

And  entinit  ho»ry  Rraln  nod  pnlM,  the  ttecds 
Stood  by  their  cars,  wmiting  the  thronid  morn. 


THE  COMING  OF  AKTIIUa 


900 


Who  Unxht  htm  magic :  bnt  tho  ncholar  ran 
Bofora  tb«  iimtiter,  and  ixi  far.  Hint  Miojni 
Laid  magic  br,  uml  Mtt  him  itowii,  and  wrote 
All  thlDga  and  wlialvoovcr  Murlln  did 
In  on*  great  nnuni-biMik,  whpr«  nftor  jrearn 
WUI  iMrn  Uia  aecr«t  of  our  Arthur's  birth.** 

To  whom  the  king  L«odrogan  r«Dlle<l, 
"O  friend,  had  I  been  ho|p«n  half  aa  w<  ' 
Rj  this  King  Arthur  aa  by  the«  to-day, 
Than  b«aat  and  man  had  had  their  aharu  m  mr . 
Bat  anmmon  h«r«  befara  as  yet  once  more 
UUaa,  and  Brastla«,  and  Bedivere.** 

Then,  when  they  came  before  him,  the  king  enid, 
"I  have  aeen  the  cnckoo  chased  by  lesser  fowl, 
And  reason  in  the  chase :  bnt  wherefore  now 
Do  these  your  lords  stir  up  the  heat  of  war, 
Some  calling  Arthur  bom  of  Uurlols, 
Otherti  of  Anton  ?    Tell  mc,  yo  yourselres, 
Uold  ye  tbia  Arthur  for  King  Utber*8  son  ?** 

And  Ulllna  and  Brastias  answcr'd,  "Ay.** 
Then  Bedivere,  the  first  of  all  his  kuiKbtg, 
Knighted  by  Arthur  at  his  crowning,  upakc,— 
For  bold  in  heart  and  act  and  word  was  he, 
Whenever  slander  breathed  against  the  king,— 

"  Sir,  there  be  many  rumors  on  this  head : 
For  there  be  those  who  hate  him  in  their  hearts. 
Call  him  basebom,  and  since  his  ways  are  sweet, 
And  theirs  are  bestial,  hold  him  Ic^s  than  man : 
And  there  bti  those  who  deem  him  more  than  man, 
And  dream  he  dropt  fW>m  heaven :  but  my  belief 
In  all  this  matter — so  ye  care  to  learn — 
Sir,  for  ye  know  that  in  King  Uther's  time 
The  prince  and  warrior  Uorlui»,  he  that  held 
Tintagil  castle  by  the  Cornish  sea, 
Was  wedded  with  a  winsome  wife,  Ygemc: 
And  daughters  had  she  borne  him, — one  whereof 
Lot*s  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Bellicent, 
I  lath  «ver  like  a  loyal  sister  cleaved 
To  Arthur,— bnt  a  son  she  had  not  borne. 
And  Uther  cast  upon  her  eyes  of  lore : 
Bnt  she,  a  stainless  wife  to  Qorloto, 
So  loathed  the  bright  dishonor  of  his  love 
That  Gorlois  and  King  Uther  went  to  war: 
And  overthrown  was  Oorlols  and  slain. 
Then  Uther  in  his  wrath  and  beat  besieged 
Ygeme  within  Tintagil,  where  her  men. 
Seeing  the  mighty  swarm  about  their  wallp. 
Left  her  and  fled,  and  Uther  euter'd  in. 
And  there  was  none  to  call  to  but  himselL 
So,  compass'd  by  the  power  of  the  king, 
Enforced  she  was  to  wed  him  in  her  tears. 
And  with  a  shameful  swiftness ;  afterward. 
Not  many  moons,  King  Uther  died  himself, 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir  to  rule 
After  him,  lest  the  realm  should  go  to  wrnck. 
And  that  same  night,  the  night  of  the  new  year, 
By  reason  of  the  bitterness  and  grief 
That  vext  his  mother,  all  before  his  time 
Was  Arthur  bom,  and  all  as  soon  as  bom 
Deliver'd  at  a  secret  postern-gate 
To  Merlin,  to  be  holden  far  apart 
Until  his  honr  should  come ;  because  the  lords 
Of  that  fierce  day  were  as  the  lords  of  this. 
Wild  beasts,  and  surely  wonld  have  torn  the  child 
Piecemeal  among  them,  had  they  known ;  for  each 
Bnt  sought  to  rale  for  his  own  self  and  hand. 
And  many  hated  Uther  for  the  sake 
Of  Oorlols :  wherefore  Merlin  took  the  child, 
And  gave  him  to  Sir  Anton,  an  old  knight 
And  ancient  friend  of  Uther ;  and  his  wife 
Xur^cd  the  young  prince,  and  rear'd  him  with  her 

own; 
And  no  man  knew:  and  ever  since  the  lords 
Have  fonghten  like  wild  beasts  among  themselves, 
14 


80  that  the  realm  has  gone  to  wrack  t  bnt  now, 
This  yrnr,  whrn  Mrrlin  (for  his  hour  had  come) 
Brought  Arthur  ftirih,  and  set  him  tu  the  ball, 
ProclMimIng,  *llar(<  In  rthcr*8  heir,  yonr  king,' 
A  hundred  voices  cried,  'Away  with  him  I 
No  king  of  ours !  a  son  of  Uorlols  he : 
Or  else  the  child  of  Anton  and  no  king. 
Or  else  basebom.'    Yet  Merlin  thro*  his  craft 
And  while  the  people  clamor'd  f»r  a  king, 
llnd  .\rthur  crown'd ;  but  after,  the  great  lord* 
banded,  and  so  brake  out  in  open  war.** 

Then  while  tho  king  debated  with  himself 
If  Arthur  were  the  child  of  shamefulness, 
Or  born  the  son  of  Gorlois,  after  death. 
Or  Uther's  sou,  and  bora  before  his  time. 
Or  whether  there  were  troth  In  anything 
Said  by  these  three,  there  came  to  Cameliard, 
With  Oawain  and  young  Modrcd,  her  two  aous, 
Lot*s  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Bellicent; 
Whom  as  he  could,  not  as  he  would,  the  king 
Made  feast  for,  saying,  as  they  sat  at  meat, 

"A  doubtful  throne  is  ice  on  summer  seas— 
Ye  come  from  Arthur's  court:  think  ye  this  king  — 
So  few  his  knights,  however  brave  they  be— 
Hath  body  enow  to  beat  his  foemen  downt** 

"0  king,"  she  cried,  "and  I  will  tell  thee:  few, 
Few,  bnt  all  brave,  all  of  one  mind  with  him ; 
For  I  was  near  him  when  the  savage  yells 
Of  Uther*s  peerage  died,  and  Arthur  sat 
Crowned  on  the  dais,  and  his  warriors  cried, 
'Be  thou  the  king,  and  we  will  work  thy  will 
Who  love  thee.'    Then  the  king  in  low  deep  tones 
And  Fimple  words  of  great  authority. 
Bound  them  by  so  strait  vows  to  bis  own  self, 
i  That  when  they  rose,  knighted  from  kneeling,  sonic 
Were  pale  as  at  the  passing  of  a  ghost. 
Some  fluph'd,  and  others  dazed,  as  one  who  wake* 
Half-blinded  at  the  coming  of  a  KghL 

"  Bnt  when  he  spake  and  cheered  bis  Table  Round 
With  large,  divine,  and  comfortable  words 
Beyond  my  tongue  to  tell  thee — I  beheld 
From  eye  to  eye  thro'  all  their  Order  flash 
\  momentary  likeness  of  the  king ; 
And  ere  it  left  their  faces,  thro'  the  cross 
And  those  around  it  and  the  crucified, 
Down  from  the  casement  over  Arthur,  smote 
Flame-color,  vert,  and  azure,  in  three  rays, 
One  fulling  upon  each  of  three  fair  queens. 
Who  stood  in  silence  near  his  throne,  the  friends 
Of  Arthur,  gazing  on  him,  tali,  with  bright. 
Sweet  faces,  who  will  help  bim  at  his  need. 

"  And  there  I  saw  mage  Merlin,  whose  vast  wit 
And  hundred  winters  are  bnt  as  the  hands 
Of  loyal  vassals  toiling  for  their  liege. 

"  And  near  him  stood  the  Lady  of  the  lake,— 
\^^lo  knows  a  subtler  magic  than  his  own, — 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
She  gave  the  king  his  huge  cross-bilted  sword, 
Whereby  to  drive  the  heathen  out:  a  mist 
Of  incense  cnrl'd  about  her,  and  her  bee 
Welluigh  was  hidden  in  the  minster  gloom, 
Bnt  there  was  heard  among  the  holy  hymns 
A  voice  as  of  tho  waters,  for  she  dwells 
Down  in  a  deep,  calm,  whatsoever  storms 
May  shake  the  world,  and,  when  the  surface  rolls, 
Hath  power  to  walk  the  waters  like  our  Lord. 

"There  likewise  I  beheld  Excalibnr 
Before  him  at  his  crowning  bome,  the  sword 
That  rose  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake. 
And  Arthur  row'd  across  and  took  it,— rkh 
With  Jewels,  elfin  Urim,  on  tho  hilt. 


210 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR 


Bewildering  heart  and  eye,— the  blade  so  bright 
That  men  are  blinded  by  it, — on  one  side, 
Graven  in  the  oldest  tongue  of  all  this  world, 
'Take  me,'  but  turn  the  blade  and  you  shall  see. 
And  written  in  the  speech  ye  speak  yourself, 
'Cast  me  away!'  and  sad  was  Arthur's  face 
Taking  it,  but  old  Merlin  counsell'd  him, 
■  Take  thon  and  strike  !  the  time  to  cast  away 
Is  yet  far  off;'  so  this  great  brand  the  king 
Took,  and  by  this  will  beat  his  foemen  down." 

Thereat  Leodogran  rejoiced,  but  thought 
To  sift  his  doubtings  to  the  last,  and  ask'd, 
Fixing  full  eyes  of  question  on  her  face, 
"The  swallow  and  the  swift  are  near  akin, 
But  thou  art  closer  to  this  noble  prince. 
Being  his  own  dear  sister ;"  and  she  said, 
"  Daughter  of  Gorlols  and  Ygeme  am  I ;" 
"And  therefore  Arthur's  sister,"  asked  the  King. 
She  answer'd,  "  These  be  secret  things,"  and  siga'd 
To  those  two  sons  to  pass  and  let  them  be. 
And  Gawaln  went,  and  breaking  into  song 
Sprang  out,  and  follow'd  by  bis  flying  hair 
Itau  like  a  colt,  and  leapt  at  all  he  saw: 
Bat  Modred  laid  his  ear  beside  the  doom, 
And  there  half  heard  ;  the  same  that  afterward 
Struck  for  the  throne,  and,  striking,  found  bis  doom. 

And  then  the  Queen  made  answer,  "  What  know  I  ? 
For  dark  my  mother  was  in  eyes  and  hair. 
And  dark  lu  hair  and  eyes  am  I ;  and  dark 
Was  Oorlols,  yea,  and  dark  was  Other  too, 
Wellnlgh  to  blackness,  but  this  king  Is  fair 
Beyond  the  race  of  Britons  and  of  men. 
Moreover  always  in  my  mind  I  hear 
A  cry  from  out  the  dawning  of  my  life, 
A  mother  weeping,  and  I  hear  her  say, 
'  Oh  that  ye  had  some  brother,  pretty  one, 
To  guard  thee  on  the  rough  ways  of  the  world.'*' 

"Ay,"  said  the  King,  "and  hear  ye  such  a  cryf 
But  when  did  Arthur  chance  upon  thee  flrstt" 

"  O  king !"  she  cried,  "  and  I  will  tell  thee  tme : 
He  found  me  first  when  yet  a  little  maid- 
Beaten  I  bad  been  for  a  little  fault 
Whereof  I  was  not  guilty ;  and  out  I  ran 
And  flung  myself  down  on  a  bank  of  heath. 
And  hated  this  fair  world  and  all  therein, 
And  wept,  and  wish'd  that  I  were  dead ;  and  be— 
I  know  not  whether  of  himself  he  came, 
Or  brought  by  Merlin,  who,  they  say,  can  walk 
Unseen,  at  pleasure— ho  was  at  my  side. 
And  spake  sweet  words,  and  comforted  my  heart. 
And  dried  my  tears,  being  a  child  with  me. 
And  many  a  time  be  came,  and  evermore, 
As  I  grew,  greater  grew  with  me ;  and  sad 
At  times  he  seem'd,  and  sad  with  him  was  I, 
Stern  too  at  times,  and  then  I  loved  him  not. 
But  sweet  again,  and  then  I  loved  him  welL 
And  now  of  late  I  see  him  less  and  less. 
But  those  first  days  had  golden  honrs  for  me. 
For  then  I  surely  thought  he  would  be  king. 

"  But  let  me  tell  Ihce  now  another  tale : 
For  Bleys,  our  Merlin's  master,  as  they  say, 
Died  but  of  late,  and  sent  his  cry  to  me. 
To  hear  him  speak  before  he  left  his  life. 
Shrunk  like  a  fairy  changeling  lay  the  mage, 
And  when  I  enter'd,  told  me  that  himself 
And  Merlin  ever  served  about  the  king, 
Uther,  before  he  died,  and  on  the  night 
When  Uther  in  Tintagil  past  away 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir,  the  two 
Left  the  still  king,  and  passing  forth  to  breathe, 
Then  from  the  castle  gateway  by  the  chasm 
Descending  thro'  the  dismal  night — a  night 
lu  which  the  bounds  of  heaven  aud  earth  were  lost- 


Beheld,  so  high  upon  the  dreary  deeps 

It  seem'd  in  heaven — a  ship,  the  shape  thereof 

A  dragon  wing'd,  and  all  from  stem  to  steru 

Bright  with  a  shining  people  on  the  decks. 

And  gone  as  soon  as  seen :  and  then  the  two 

Dropt  to  the  cove  and  watch'd  the  great  sea  fall. 

Wave  after  wave,  each  mightier  than  the  last, 

Till,  last,  a  ninth  one,  gathering  half  the  deep 

And  full  of  voices,  slowly  rose  and  plunged 

Roaring,  and  all  the  wave  was  in  a  flame : 

And  down  the  wave  and  in  the  flame  was  borne 

A  naked  babe,  and  rode  to  Merlin's  feet. 

Who  stoopt  and  caught  the  babe,  aud  cried,  'The 

King! 
Here  is  an  heir  for  Uther!'  and  the  frmge 
Of  that  great  breaker,  sweeping  up  the  strand, 
Lash'd  at  the  wizard  as  be  spake  the  word. 
And  all  at  once  all  round  him  rose  in  Are, 
So  tliat  the  child  and  he  were  clothed  lu  Are. 
And  presently  thereafter  follow'd  calm, 
Free  sky  and  stars:  'And  this  same  child,'  he  said, 
'  Is  be  who  reigns ;  nor  could  I  part  in  peace 
Till  this  were  told.'    And  saying  this  the  seer 
Went  thro'  the  strait  and  dreadful  pass  of  death. 
Not  ever  to  be  question'd  any  more 
Save  on  the  fhrther  side ;  but  when  I  met 
Merlin,  and  ask'd  him  if  these  things  were  truth,— 
The  shining  dragon  and  the  naked  child 
Descending  in  the  glory  of  the  seas,- 
Ue  laugfa'd  as  is  his  wont,  and  answer'd  me 
In  riddling  triplets  of  old  time,  aud  said : 

" '  Rain,  rain,  and  sun  !  a  rainbow  in  the  sky  t 
A  yonng  man  will  be  wiser  by  and  by: 
An  old  man's  wit  may  wander  ere  he  die. 

Rain,  rain,  aud  sun  1  a  rainbow  on  the  lea  I 
And  truth  is  this  to  me,  and  that  to  thee; 
And  truth  or  clothed  or  naked  let  it  be. 

Rain,  snn,  and  rain  !  and  the  free  blossom  blows : 
Sun,  rain,  and  sun !  and  where  is  he  who  knows  t 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep  be  goes.' 

"So  Merlin,  riddling,  anger'd  me:  but  thou 
Fear  not  to  give  this  king  thine  only  child, 
Guinevere :  so  great  bards  of  him  will  sing 
Hereafter,  and  dark  sayings  from  of  old 
Ranging  and  ringing  thro'  the  minds  of  men. 
And  ccho'd  by  old  folks  beside  their  fires 
For  comfort  after  their  wage-work  Is  done, 
Speak  of  the  king ;   and  Merlin  in  our  time 
Oath  spoken  also,  not  in  jest,  and  sworn. 
Tho'  men  may  wound  him,  that  he  will  not  die, 
But  pass,  again  to  come ;  and  then  or  now 
Utterly  smite  the  heathen  underfoot, 
Till  these  and  all  men  hail  him  for  their  king." 

She  spake  and  King  Leodogran  rejoiced. 
But  musing  "Shall  I  answer  yea  or  nayt" 
Doubted  and  drowsed,  nodded  and  slept,  and  saw. 
Dreaming,  a  slope  of  land  that  ever  grew. 
Field  after  field,  np  to  a  height,  the  peak 
Ilaze-hldden,  and  thereon  a  phantom  king, 
Now  looming,  aud  now  lost ;  and  on  the  slope 
The  sword  rose,  the  hind  fell,  the  herd  was  driven, 
Fire  glimpsed ;  and  all  the  land  from  roof  and  rick 
In  drifts  of  smoke  before  a  rolling  wind 
Stream'd  to  the  peak,  and  mingled  with  the  haze 
And  made  it  thicker ;  while  the  phantom  king 
Sent  out  at  times  a  voice ;  and  here  or  there 
Stood  one  who  pointed  toward  the  voice,  the  rest 
Slew  on  and  burnt,  crying,  "  No  king  of  onrs, 
No  son  of  Uther,  and  no  king  of  onrs ;" 
Till  with  a  wink  his  dream  was  changed,  tho  haze 
Descended,  and  the  solid  earth  became 
As  nothing,  and  the  king  stood  out  in  heaven. 
Crown 'd ;  and  Leodogran  awoke,  and  sent 
Ulflus,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere 
Back  to  the  court  of  Arthur  answering  yea. 


THE  HOLY  QRAIL. 


Sll 


Then  Arthur  charged  bla  warrior  whom  b«  lov«d 
And  hoiiiir'il  uiuxl,  Sir  I^nralol,  to  rido  Ibrth 
And  briuK  iho  yue«u ;— oiid  watch'd  him  nrum  Uie 

And  Lancelot  paat  away  among  the  flowera, 
(For  then  waa  latter  April)  and  retam'd 
Anaong  the  flowera,  in  May,  with  Oalnerere. 
To  whom  arrived,  by  Dubric  the  high  aalnt. 
Chief  at  the  chorch  in  Britain,  and  before 
The  atateliest  of  her  allar-ahrinos,  the  IcUig 
That  mom  waa  married,  while  In  etalnleaa  white. 
The  bir  beginners  of  a  nobler  time, 
And  glorying  In  their  tows  and  him,  his  knights 
Stood  round  him,  and  n^olclng  in  hia  Joy. 
And  holy  Dubric  spread  his  handa  and  opakc, 
"Reign  ye,  and  live  and  love,  and  make  the  world 
Other,  and  may  thy  Queen  be  one  with  theo. 
And  all  this  Order  of  thy  Table  Hound 
Pnlflll  the  boundleaa  purpose  of  their  king." 

Then  at  the  marriage  (Isaat  came  in  from  Rome, 
The  itlowly-radiug  mistress  of  ibo  world, 
Qroat  lords,  who  claim'd  the  tribute  as  of  yore. 
But  Arthur  spake,  "  Behold,  for  these  have  sworu 
To  light  my  wars,  and  worship  me  their  king; 
The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new ; 
jVnd  we  that  fight  for  our  (Ur  ikther  Christ, 
Seeing  that  ye  be  grown  too  weak  and  old 
To  drive  the  heathen  from  your  Roman  wall. 
No  tribute  will  we  pay :"  so  thoee  great  lords 
Drew  back  In  wrath,  and  Arthur  strove  with  Rome. 

And  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  for  a  space 
Were  all  one  will,  and  thro'  that  etrcngth  the  king 
Drew  In  the  petty  princedoms  under  him, 
Fought,  and  In  twelve  great  battles  overcame 
The  heathen  hordes,  and  made  a  realm  and  relgu'd 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 

Fbom  nolsefnl  arms,  and  acts  of  prowess  done 
In  tournament  or  tilt.  Sir  Percivalc, 
Whom  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  call'd  The  Pure, 
Had  pass'd  into  the  silent  life  of  prayer. 
Praise,  fa«t,  and  alms ;  and  leaving  for  the  cowl 
The  helmet  in  an  abl>ey  far  away 
From  Camelot,  tbere,  and  not  long  after,  died. 

And  one,  a  fellow-monk  among  the  rest, 
Ambroaius,  loved  him  much  beyond  the  rest, 
And  honor'd  him,  and  wrought  into  his  heart 
A  way  by  love  that  waken'd  love  within, 
To  answer  that  which  came :  and  as  they  sat 
Beneath  a  world-old  yew-tree,  darkening  half 
The  cloisters,  on  a  gnstfnl  April  mom 
That  pnff'd  the  swaying  branches  into  smoke 
Above  them,  ere  the  summer  when  he  died. 
The  monk  Ambroains  question'd  Percivale:— 

"O  brother,  I  have  seen  this  yew-tree  smoke. 
Spring  after  spring,  for  half  a  hundred  years  : 
For  never  have  I  known  the  world  without. 
Nor  ever  strayed  l>eyond  the  pale:  but  thee, 
When  first  thou  camest,— such  a  courtesy 
•Spake  thro'  the  limbs  and  in  the  voice,— I  knew 
For  one  of  those  who  eat  in  Arthur's  hall ; 
For  good  ye  are  and  bad,  and  like  to  coins. 
Some  true,  some  light,  but  every  one  of  you 
Stanip'd  with  the  imase  of  the  king ;  and  now 
Tell  me,  what  dnive  thee  from  the  Table  Round, 
My  brother?  was  it  earthly  passion  croet?" 

"  Nay,"  aaid  the  knight ;   "  for  no  such  passion 
mine. 
But  the  sweet  vision  of  the  Holy  Orail 
Drove  me  from  all  vainglories,  rivalries. 


And  earthly  h«ata  that  apring  wd  aparklc  out 
Among  ua  Ib  tlic  Jonata,  while  wwawi  watch 
Who  wins,  who    fiUla;   and   wait*    tbe    spiritual 

strength 
Within  us,  better  ofliu'd  op  to  Wtvna." 

To  whom  the  monk:  "The  Holy  Oralll— I  trust 
Wo  are  green  in  Heaven's  eyes ;  but  hero  too  much 
We  .moulder,— aa  to  things  without  I  mean,— 
Yot  one  of  your  own  knights,  a  guest  of  ours, 
Tuld  us  of  this  In  our  reflectory. 
But  spake  with  such  a  aadness  and  so  low 
We  heard  not  half  of  what  he  said.    What  Is  It  t 
The  phantom  of  a  cup  that  oomea  and  goes  f 

"  Nay,  monk  t  what  phantom  T"  answcr'd  Pcrclvalo. 
"The  cup,  the  cup  Itself,  from  which  our  Lord 
Drank  at  the  last  sad  supper  with  his  own. 
This,  fk-om  the  blessed  laud  of  Aromat— 
After  the  day  of  darknesa,  when  the  dead 
Went  wandering  o'er  Morlah,  the  good  saint, 
Arimathasan  Joseph,  Journeying  brought 
To  Glastonbury,  where  the  winter  thorn 
Blossoms  at  Chrlstmaa,  mindful  of  our  Lord. 
And  there  awhile  it  bode ;  and  If  a  mau 
Could  touch  or  see  it,  he  was  heal'd  at  once, 
By  faith,  of  all  his  Ills;  but  tlicu  the  times 
Grew  to  such  evil  that  the  Holy  cup 
Was  caught  away  to  Heaven  and  dUappeat'd." 

To  whom  the  monk:    "From  our  old  books  I 
know 
That  Joseph  came  of  old  to  Glastonbury, 
And  there  the  heathen  Prince,  Arvlragus, 
Gave  him  an  isle  of  marsh  whereon  to  build ; 
And  there  ho  built  with  wattles  from  the  marsh 
A  little  lonely  church  in  days  of  yore, 
For  so  they  say,  these  books  of  ours,  but  seem 
Mnte  of  this  miracle,  far  as  I  have  read. 
But  who  first  saw  the  holy  thing  to-day?" 

"  A  woman,"  answered  Percivale,  "  a  nun. 
And  one  no  farther  off  in  blood  from  me 
Than  sister ;  and  if  ever  holy  maid 
With  knees  of  adoration  wore  the  stone, 
A  holy  maid ;  tho'  never  maid«n  glow'd. 
But  t'bat  was  in  her  earlier  maidenhood. 
With  such  a  fervent  flame  of  human  love, 
Which  being  rudely  blunted  glanced  and  shot 
Only  to  holy  things:  to  prayer  and  praise 
She  gave  herself,  to  fast  and  alms ;  and  yet, 
Nnn  as  she  was,  the  scandal  of  the  Court, 
Sin  against  Arthur  and  the  Table  Round, 
And  the  strange  sound  of  an  adulterous  race 
Across  the  iron  grating  of  her  cell 
Beat,  and  she  pray'd  and  fasted  all  the  more. 

"  And  he  to  whom  she  told  her  sins,  or  what 
Her  all  but  utter  whiteness  held  for  sin, 
A  man  wellnigh  a  hundred  winters  old. 
Spake  often  with  her  of  the  Holy  Grail, 
A  legend  handed  down  thro'  five  or  six. 
And  each  of  these  a  hundred  winters  old. 
From  our  Lord's  time :  and  when  King  Arthur  made 
His  table  round,  and  all  men's  hearts  became 
Clean  fur  a  season,  surely  he  hod  thought 
That  now  the  Holy  Grail  would  come  again ; 
But  sin  broke  out    Ah,  Christ,  that  it  would  come, 
And  heal  the  world  of  all  their  wickedness  I 
'  O  Father  1'  asked  the  maiden,  '  might  It  come 
To  me  by  prayer  and  fasting  ?'    '  Nay,'  said  he, 
'  I  know  not,  for  thy  heart  is  pure  as  snow.* 
And  so  she  pray'd  and  fasted,  till  the  sun 
Shone,  and  the  wind  blew,  thro'  her,  and  I  thought 
She  might  have  risen  and  floated  when  I  saw  her. 

"For  on  a  day  abe  sent  to  speak  with  me. 
And  when  she  came  to  speak,  behold  her  eyes 


212 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


Beyond  my  knowing  of  them,  beaotiful, 

Beyond  all  knowing  of  tlieni,  wonderful, 

Beautiful  in  the  light  of  holiness. 

And  '  O  my  brother,  Percivale,'  she  said, 

'  Sweet  brother,  1  have  seen  the  Holy  Grail : 

For,  waked  at  dead  of  night,  I  heard  a  sound 

As  of  a  silver  horn  from  o'er  the  hills 

Blown,  and  I  thought  it  is  not  Arthur's  use 

To  hunt  by  moonlight,  and  the  slender  sound   . 

As  from  a  distance  beyond  distance  grew 

Coming  upon  me,— O  never  harp  nor  horn. 

Nor  aught  we  blow  with  breath,  or  touch  with  hand, 

Was  like  that  music  as  it  came ;  and  then 

Stream'd  thro'  my  cell  a  cold  and  silver  beam. 

And  down  the  long  l)eam  stole  the  Holy  tiruil, 

Rose-red  with  beatings  in  It,  as  if  alive. 

Till  all  the  white  walls  of  my  cell  were  dyed 

With  rosy  colors  leaping  on  the  wall ; 

And  then  the  music  faded,  and  the  Grail 

Passed,  and  the  beam  decay'd,  and  from  the  walls 

The  rosy  quiverings  died  Into  the  night. 

So  now  the  Holy  Thing  is  here  again 

Among  US,  brother,  fast  thou  too  and  pray. 

And  tell  thy  brother  knights  to  fast  and  pray, 

That  BO  perchance  the  vision  may  be  seen 

By  thee  and  those,  and  all  the  world  be  heal'd.' 

"Then  leaving  the  pale  nun,  I  spake  of  this 
To  all  men ;  and  myself  fasted  and  pray'd 
Always,  and  many  among  us  many  a  week 
Fasted  and  pray'd  even  to  the  uttermost, 
Exi)ectant  of  the  wonder  that  would  be. 

"And  one  there  was  among  ns,  ever  moved 
Among  us  in  white  armor,  Oalahad. 
*Qod  make  thee  good  as  thou  art  beautiful,' 
Said  Arthur,  when  he  dubb'd  him  knight ;  and  none, 
In  so  young  youth,  was  ever  made  a  knight 
Till  Galahad;  and  this  Galahad,  when  he  heard 
My  sister's  vision,  flU'd  me  with  amaze; 
His  eyes  became  so  like  her  own,  they  eeem'd 
Hen,  and  himself  her  brother  more  than  I. 

"Sister  or  brother  none  had  be;  but  some 
Call'd  him  a  son  of  Lancelot,  and  some  said 
Begotten  by  enchantment,— chatterers,  they, 
Like  birds  ol  passage  piping  up  and  down 
That  gape  for  flies,— we  know  not  whence  they  come ; 
For  when  was  Lancelot  wanderlngly  lewd? 

"  But  she,  the  wan,  sweet  maiden  shore  away 
Clean  ft-om  her  forehead  all  that  wealth  of  hair 
Which  made  a  silken  mat-work  for  her  feet; 
And  out  of  this  she  plaited  broad  and  long 
A  strong  sword-belt,  and  wove  with  silver  thread 
And  crimson  iu  the  belt  a  strange  device, 
A  crimson  grail  within  a  silver  beam ; 
And  saw  the  bright  boy-knight,  and  bound  it  on  him 
Saying,  '  My  knight,  my  love,  my  knight  of  heaven. 
O  thou,  my  love,  whose  love  is  one  with  mine, 
I,  maiden,  round  thee,  maiden,  bind  my  belt. 
Go  forth,  for  thou  shalt  see  what  I  have  seen, 
And  break  thro'  all,  till  one  will  crown  thee  king 
Far  in  the  splritnal  city :'  and  as  she  spake 
She  sent  the  deathless  passion  In  her  eyes 
Thro'  him,  and  made  him  hens,  and  laid  her  mind 
Oa  him,  and  he  believed  in  her  belief. 

"  Then  came  a  year  of  miracle :  O  brother, 
In  our  great  hall  there  stood  a  vacant  chair, 
Fashion'd  by  Merlin  ere  he  past  away, 
And  carven  with  strange  figures ;  and  In  and  out 
The  figures,  like  a  serpent,  ran  a  scroll 
Of  letters  in  a  tongue  no  man  could  read. 
And  Merlin  call'd  it  'The  Siege  perilous,' 
Perilous  for  good  and  ill:  'for  there,'  he  said, 
'Xo  man  could  sit  but  he  should  lose  himself:' 
And  once  by  raiiadvertence  Merlin  sat 


In  his  own  chair,  and  so  was  lost ;  but  he, 
Galahad,  wheu  he  heard  of  Merlin's  doom. 
Cried,  'If  I  lose  myself  I  save  myself;' 

"Then  on  a  summer  night  it  came  to  pass, 
While  the  great  banquet  lay  along  the  hall. 
That  Galahad  would  sit  down  la  Merlin's  chair. 

"  And  all  at  once,  as  there  we  sat,  we  heard 
A  cracking  and  a  riving  of  the  roofs. 
And  rending,  and  a  blast,  and  overliead 
Thunder,  and  in  the  thunder  was  a  cry. 
And  in  the  blast  there  smote  along  the  ball 
A  beam  of  light  seven  times  more  clear  than  diy : 
And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the  Holy  Grail 
All  over  cover'd  with  a  luminous  cloud. 
And  none  might  see  who  bare  it,  and  It  past. 
But  every  knight  beheld  his  fellow's  face 
As  in  a  glory,  and  all  the  knights  arose. 
And  staring  each  at  otiier  like  dumb  men 
Stood,  till  1  found  a  voice  and  sware  a  vow. 

*'I  sware  a  tow  before  them  all,  that  I 
Because  I  bad  not  seen  the  Grail,  would  rldt, 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  day  In  quest  of  it. 
Until  I  found  and  saw  it,  as  the  nun 
My  sister  saw  it ;  and  Oalahad  sware  the  vow. 
And  good  Sir  Bors,  our  Lancelot's  cousin,  sware. 
And  Lancelot  sware,  and  many  among  the  knlghu. 
And  Oawain  sware,  and  louder  than  the  rest. 

Then  spake  the  monk  Ambroslus,  asking  htm, 
"What  said  the  king?    Did  Arthur  take  the  vow?" 

"  Nay,  for,  my  lord,  (said  Percivale,)  the  kinj 
Was  not  In  Hall :  for  early  that  same  day, 
'Scaped  thro*  a  cavern  from  a  bandit  hold. 
An  outraged  maiden  sprang  into  the  ball 
Crying  on  help;  for  all  her  shining  hair 
Was  smear'd  with  earth,  and  cither  milky  arm 
Red-rent  with  hooks  of  bramble,  and  all  she  wore 
Tom  as  a  sail,  that  leaves  the  rope,  is  torn 
In  tempest:  so  the  king  arose  and  went 
To  smoke  the  scandalous  hire  of  those  wild  bees 
That  made  such  honey  in  bis  realm :  howbelt 
Some  little  of  this  marvel  he  too  saw. 
Returning  o'er  the  plain  that  then  began 
To  darken  under  Camelol ;  whence  the  king 
Look'd  up,  calling  aloud,  '  Lo  there  I  the  roofs 
Of  our  great  Hall  are  rolled  In  thunder-smoke ! 
Pray  Heaven  they  be  not  smitten  by  the  bolu' 
For  dear  to  Arthur  was  that  ball  of  ours. 
As  having  there  so  oft  with  all  his  knights 
Feasted,  and  as  the  stateliest  under  heaven. 

I     "  O  brother,  had  yon  known  our  mighty  hall, 
I  Which  Merlin  built  for  Arthur  long  ago ! 
I  For  all  the  sacred  Mount  of  Camelot, 
;  And  all  the  dim  rich  city,  roof  by  roof; 
Tower  after  tower,  spire  beyond  spire. 
By  grove,  and  garden-lawn,  and  rushing  brook, 

■  Climbs  to  the  mighty  hall  that  Merlin  built. 

;  And  four  great  zones  of  sculpture,  set  betwixt 
With  many  a  mystic  symbol,  gird  the  hall ; 
!  And  In  the  lowest  beasts  are  slaying  men, 
'  And  In  the  second  men  are  slaying  beasts, 

■  And  on  the  third  are  warriors,  perfect  men, 

j  And  on  the  fourth  are  men  with  growing  wings. 

And  over  all  one  statue  In  the  mould 
j  Of  Arthur,  made  by  Merlin,  with  a  crown, 
',  And  peak'd  wings  pointed  to  the  Northern  Star. 
i  And  eastward  fronts  the  statue,  and  the  crown 

And  both  the  wings  are  made  of  gold,  and  flame 
\  At  sunrise  till  the  people  in  far  fields, 
j  Wasted  so  often  by  the  heathen  hordes, 
I  Behold  it,  crying,  '  We  have  still  a  king.' 

I     "And,  brother,  had  you  known  our  hall  within, 
;  Broader  and  higher  than  any  In  all  the  lands ! 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


313 


Wbftr«  twelT«  great  wlndowi  bUson  Arthur'*  w.-ir^. 
And  all  U>«  llgbt  that  GUIs  upon  the  buMnl 
Streama  thro*  the  twelve  great  battlea  of  uor  klu;;. 
Nay,  one  there  la,  and  at  the  eaatem  end, 
Wealthy  with  wandering  linea  of  mount  and  nere. 
Where  Arthur  flnda  the  brand  Kzcallbar. 
And  also  one  to  the  west,  and  eouutcr  to  it. 
And  blank :  and  who  ihall  blaion  it?  when  aud  how  ? 
U  then,  perchance,  whrii  all  oar  warn  are  dune, 
The  brand  Excolibur  will  be  cast  away. 

"So  to  this  hall  hill  qnickly  rmlo  the  kin;;. 
In  horror  lo«t  the  work  by  Merlin  wrunght. 
Dreamlike,  should  on  the  sndden  Yantah,  wrapt 
In  nnremortwfUl  folds  of  rolling  Itre. 
And  in  ho  rode,  and  up  I  (;lauccd,  and  i>aw 
The  jjoldcn  drnijon  rpnrkliiiK  ovor  nil: 
And  lunny  of  lho80  who  burnt  tho  bold,  their  arms 
Ilack'd,  and  their  foreheads  grimed  with  smoke,  and 

scar'd, 
Pollow'd,  and  in  amonp;  bripht  fiices,  onrs 
Full  of  tho  viDiou,  prest:  and  then  the  King 
Spake  to  me,  being  nearest,  '  Pcrcivale,' 
(Because  the  Hall  was  all  in  tnmnli— some 
Vowing,  and  some  protesting,)  '  what  is  this  V 

"O  brother,  when  I  told  him  what  had  chanced. 
My  sister's  vision,  and  tho  rest,  his  face 
Darkcu'd,  as  I  have  seen  it  more  than  onco, 
When  some  brave  deed  seem'd  to  be  done  in  vnin. 
Darken ;  and  '  Woe  is  roe,  my  knights  !'  ho  cried, 
'Had  I  been  here,  ye  had  not  sworn  the  vow.* 
Bold  was  mine  answer,  '  Had  thyself  been  here. 
My  king,  thou  wouldst  have  sworn.*     'Yea,  yea,' 

said  he, 
'  Art  thou  so  bold  and  host  not  seen  the  grail  V 

"  •  Nay,  Lord,  I  heard  the  sound,  I  saw  the  light. 
But  since  I  did  not  see  the  Holy  'Thin'r, 
I  sware  a  vow  to  follow  it  till  I  saw.' 

"  Then  when  he  asked  ns,  knight  by  knight,  if  any 
Had  seen  it,  all  their  answers  were  as  one, 
*Nay,  Lord,  and  therefore  have  we  sworn  uur  vows.* 

" '  Lo  now,'  said  Arthnr,  '  have  ye  seen  a  clond  f 
What  go  ye  into  the  wilderness  to  see  f 

"Then  Galahad  on  the  sndden,  and  in  a  voice 
Shrilling  along  the  hall  to  Arthur,  call'd, 
'  But  I,  Sir  Arthnr,  saw  the  Holy  Orail, 
I  saw  the  Holy  Grail  and  heard  a  cry— 
O  Galahad,  and  O  Galahad,  follow  me.' 

"'Ah,  Galahad,  Galahad,'  said  the  King,  'for  such 
As  thou  art  is  the  vision,  not  for  these. 
Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  seen  a  sign; 
Holier  is  none,  my  Percivale,  than  she,— 
A  sig^n  to  maim  this  Order  which  I  made. 
Bnt  yon,  that  follow  bat  the  leader's  bell,' 
(Brother,  the  king  was  hard  npon  his  knights,} 
'Taliessin  is  onr  fullest  throat  of  song. 
And  one  bath  sung  and  all  the  dumb  will  sing. 
Lancelot  is  Lancelot,  and  hath  overborne 
Five  knights  at  once,  and  every  younger  knight, 
Unproven,  holds  himself  as  Lancelot, 
Till,  overtime  by  one,  he  learns, — and  ye. 
What  are  yet    Oalahads,— no,  nor  Percivales' 
(For  thus  it  pleased  the  king  to  range  me  close 
After  Sir  Galahad);  'nay,' said  he,  'but  men 
With  strength  and  will  to  right  the  wrong'd,  of  power 
To  lay  the  sndden  heads  of  violence  flat, 
Knights  that  in  twelve  great  battles  splash'd  and  dyed 
The  strong  White  Horse  in  bis  own  heathen  blood,— 
But  one  hath  seen,  and  all  the  blind  will  see. 
Go,  since  yonr  vows  are  sacred,  being  made, — 
Yet,  for  ye  know  the  cries  of  all  my  realm 
Pass  thro'  this  hall,  how  often,  O  my  knights. 


••a  being  vacant  at  ny  sUto, 

<'  of  noble  deeds  will  oooM  aad  go 

...^ui,'ed,  while  you  follow  waatfertag  flree 

Ltoat  la  th*  quagmire  t  many  of  yon,  yaa  mod, 
Retom  BO  norat  ye  think  I  show  myaelf 
Too  dark  a  prophet :  come  now,  let  us  meet 
The  morrow  mom  once  more  In  one  fttll  fleid 
Of  gracious  paatime,  that  once  mor»  •>■••  ^i— '. 
Itelbre  you  leave  him  for  tliis  qu(^ 
The  yet  unbroken  strength  of  all  i< 
Rejoicing  in  that  Order  which  he  made' 

"So  when  the  sun  broke  next  (h>m  uudergrouud, 
All  the  great  table  of  onr  Arthur  dosed 
And  claah'd  in  such  a  tourney  and  ao  fhll, 
So  many  lances  broken,— never  yet 
Had  Camelot  seen  the  like  since  Arthnr  came. 
And  I  myself  and  Galahad,  for  a  strength 
Waa  in  ns  fh>m  the  vision,  overthrew 
So  many  knights  that  all  the  people  cried. 
And  almost  burst  the  barriers  in  their  heat, 
Shouting  '  Sir  Galahad  aud  Sir  Pcrcivale !' 

"Bnt   when   the  next  day  brake   firom  under- 
-   ground, — 

0  brother,  had  you  known  onr  Camelot, 
Bnilt  by  old  kings,  age  after  age,  so  old 

The  khig  himself  had  fears  that  it  would  fall. 

So  strange  and  rich,  and  dim ;  for  where  the  roofs 

Totter'd  toward  each  other  in  the  sky 

Met  foreheads  all  along  the  street  of  those 

Who  watch'd  ns  pass ;  and  lower,  and  where  the 

long 
Rich  galleries,  lady-Iaden,  weigh'd  the  uecka 
Of  dragons  clinging  to  the  crazy  walls, 
Thicker  than  drops  from  thunder  showers  of  flowe:a 
Fell,  as  we  past ;  and  men  and  Iwys  astride 
On  wyvem,  lion,  dragon,  griflin,  swan. 
At  all  the  comers,  named  us  each  by  name. 
Calling  *  God  speed !'  but  in  the  street  below 
The  knights  and  ladies  wept,  and  rich  and  poor 
Wept,  and  the  king  himself  could  hardly  speak 
For  sorrow,  and  in  tho  middle  street  the  queen. 
Who  rode  by  Lancelot,  wail'd  and  shriek'd  aloud, 
'This  madness  has  come  on  ns  for  our  sins.' 
And  then  we  reach'd  the  weirdly  sculptured  gate. 
Where  Arthur's  wars  were  render'd  mystically. 
And  thence  departed  every  one  his  way. 

"  And  I  was  lifted  np  in  heart,  and  thought 
Of  all  my  late-shown  prowess  in  the  lists, 
How  my  strong  lance  had  beaten  down  the  knights. 
So  many  and  famous  names;  and  never  yet 
Had  heaven  appear'd  so  blue,  nor  earth  so  green, 
For  ail  my  blood  danced  in  me,  and  I  knew 
That  I  shonld  light  upon  the  Holy  GraiL 

"Thereafter,  the  dark  warning  of  onr  king, 
That  most  of  as  would  follow  wandering  flres. 
Came  like  a  driving  gloom  across  my  mind. 
Then  every  evil  word  I  had  spoken  once. 
And  every  evil  thought  I  had  thought  of  old, 
And  every  evil  deed  I  ever  did. 
Awoke  and  cried, '  This  qnest  is  not  for  thee.' 
And  lifting  up  mine  eyes,  I  found  myself 
Alone,  and  in  a  land  of  sand  and  thorns, 
And  I  was  thirsty  even  unto  death ; 
And  I,  too,  cried,  'This  quest  is  not  for  thee.' 

"And  on  I  rode,  and  when  I  thongbt  my  thim 
Would  slay  me,  saw  deep  lawns,  and  then  a  brook. 
With  oje  sharp  rapid,  where  the  crisping  white 
PIny'd  ever  back  upon  the  sloping  wave, 
.\nd  took  both  ear  and  eye;  and  o'er  the  brook 
Were  apple-trees,  and  apples  by  the  brook 
Fallen,  and  on  the  lawns,  'I  will  rest  here,' 

1  said,  *  I  am  not  worthy  of  the  qnest ;' 
But  even  while  I  drank  the  brook,  and  ate 


214 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


The  goodly  apples,  all  these  things  at  once 

Fell  into  duBt,  and  I  was  left  alone, 

And  thirsting,  in  a  land  of  sand  and  thorns. 

"  And  then  behold  a  woman  at  a  door 
Spinning,  and  fair  the  house  whereby  ehe  sat; 
And  kind  the  woman's  eyes  and  innocent, 
And  all  her  bearing  gracious;  and  she  rose 
Opening  her  arms  to  meet  me,  as  who  should  say, 
'  Rest  here,'  but  when  I  touched  her,  lo !  she  too 
Fell  into  dust  and  nothing,  and  the  houi<e 
Became  no  better  than  a  broken  shed. 
And  in  It  a  dead  babe ;  and  also  this 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

"And  on  I  rode,  and  greater  wa«  my  thirst. 
Then  llaHh'd  a  yellow  gleam  across  the  world. 
And  where  it  smote  the  ploughshare  in  the  field, 
The  ploughman  left  his  ploughing,  and  fell  down 
Before  it;  where  it  glitter'd  on  her  pail, 
The  milkmaid  left  her  milking,  and  fell  down 
Before  it,  and  I  knew  not  why ;  but  thought 
'  The  snn  is  rising,'  tho'  the  sun  had  ri8en. 
Then  was  I  ware  of  one  that  on  me  moved 
lu  golden  armor,  with  a  crown  of  gold 
About  a  casque  all  Jewels;  and  his  horse 
In  golden  armor  Jewell'd  everywhere": 
And  on  the  splendor  came,  flashing  me  blind ; 
And  seem'd  to  me  the  Lord  of  all  the  world, 
Being  so  huge :  but  when  I  thought  be  meant 
To  crush  me,  moving  on  me,  lo !  be  too 
Opened  bis  arms  to  embrace  me  as  he  came. 
And  np  I  went  and  toach'd  him,  and  he  too 
Fell  into  dnst,  and  I  waa  left  alone 
And  wearied  in  a  land  of  sand  and  thorns. 

"And  on  I  rode  and  found  a  mighty  hill. 
And  on  the  top  a  city  wall'd :  the  spires    . 
Prick'd  with  incredible  pinnacles  into  heaven. 
And  by  the  gateway  stlrr'd  a  crowd :  and  these 
Cried  to  me,  climbing,  '  Welcome,  Perclvale ! 
Thou  mightiest  and  thou  purest  among  men !' 
And  glad  was  I  and  clomb,  but  found  at  top 
No  man,  nor  any  voice ;  and  thence  I  past 
Far  thro'  a  ruinous  city,  and  1  saw 
That  man  had  once  dwelt  there;  but  there  I  found 
Only  one  man  of  an  exceeding  age. 
'  Where  is  that  goodly  company,'  said  I, 
'  That  BO  cried  upon  me  ?*  and  he  had 
Scarce  any  Toic»to  answer,  and  yet  gasp'd 
'  Whence  and  what  art  thou  f  *  and  even  as  he  spoke 
Fell  into  dnst,  and  disappear'd,  and  I 
Was  left  alone  once  more,  and  cried,  in  griel^ 
'  Lo,  if  I  And  the  Holy  Qrail  itself, 
And  touch  it,  it  will  crumble  into  dnsU' 

"  And  thence  I  drqpt  into  a  lowly  vale. 
Low  as  the  hill  was  high,  and  where  tho  vale 
Was  lowest  found  a  chapel,  and  thereby 
A  holy  hermit  In  a  hermitage. 
To  whom  I  told  my  phantoms,  and  he  said : 

"'O  son,  thou  hast  not  tme  humility, 
The  highest  virtue,  mother  of  them  all ; 
For  when  the  Lord  of  all  things  made  Uimself 
Naked  of  glory  for  His  mortal  change, 
"Take  thou  my  robe,"  she  said,  "for  all  Is  thine," 
And  all  her  form  sbone  forth  with  sudden  light 
So  that  the  angels  were  amazed,  and  she 
FoUow'd  him  down,  and  like  a  flying  star 
Led  on  the  gray-hair'd  wisdom  of  the  East ; 
But  her  thou  bast  not  known :  for  what  is  this 
Thou  thoughtest  of  thy  prowess  and  thy  sins  ? 
Thou  hast  not  lost  thyself  to  save  thyself 
As  Galahad.'    When  the  hermit  made  an  end, 
In  silver  armor  suddenly  Galahad  shone 
Before  us,  and  against  the  chapel  door 
Laid  lance,  and  entered,  and  we  knelt  in  prayer. 


And  there  the  hermit  slaked  my  burnmg  thirst ; 
And  at  the  sacring  of  the  mass  I  saw 
The  holy  elements  alone .  but  he 
'  Saw  ye  no  more  t    I,  Galahad,  saw  the  Grail, 
The  Holy  Grail,  descend  upon  the  shrine  : 
I  saw  the  flery  face  as  of  a  child 
That  emote  itself  into  the  bread,  and  went, 
And  hither  am  I  come ;  and  never  yet 
Hath  what  thy  sister  taught  me  first  to  see. 
This  holy  thing,  fail'd  from  my  side,  nor  come 
Cover'd,  but  moving  with  me  night  and  day. 
Fainter  by  day,  but  always  in  the  night 
Blood-red,  and  sliding  down  the  blackcu'd  marsh 
Blood-red,  and  on  the  naked  mountain  top 
Blood-red,  and  in  the  sleeping  mere  below 
Blood-red :  and  in  the  strength  of  this  1  rode 
Shattering  all  evil  customs  everywhere, 
And  past  thro'  Pagan  realms,  and  made  them  mine. 
And  clash'd  with  Pagan  hordes,  and  bore  tlieiii  down, 
And  broke  thro*  all,  and  iu  the  strength  of  this 
Come  victor:  but  my  lime  is  hard  at  hand. 
And  hence  I  go ;  and  one  will  crown  me  king 
Far  in  the  spiritual  city,  and  come  thou  too. 
For  thou  Shalt  see  the  viaion  when  1  go.' 

"While  thus  he  spake, his  eye,  dwelling  on  mine, 
Drew  me,  with  power  upon  me,  till  I  grew 
One  with  bim,  to  believe  as  be  believed 
Then  when  the  day  began  to  wane  we  went. 

"Then  roee  a  hill  that  none  but  men  couid  climb, 
Scarr'd  with  a  hundred  wintry  wulercoursef,— 
Storm  at  the  top,  aud,  when  we  gaiu'd  it,  storm 
Round  us  and  death;  for  every  moment  glanced 
Ills  silver  arms  and  gloom'd :  so  quick  aud  thick 
The  lightnings  here  aud  there  lo  left  and  right 
Struck,  till  the  dry  old  trunks  about  us,  dead, 
Yea,  rotten  with  a  hundred  years  of  death, 
Sprang  into  Are ;  and  at  the  base  we  found 
On  either  hand,  aa  tar  as  eye  could  see,  • 
A  great  black  swamp  and  of  an  evil  smell, 
Part  black,  part  wbiten'd  with  the  bones  of  men. 
Not  to  be  Croat  aave  that  some  ancient  king 
Had  built  a  way,  where,  linked  with  many  a  bridge, 
A  tbonsand  piers  ran  into  the  Great  Sea 
Aud  Galahad  fled  along  them  bridge  by  bridge. 
And  every  bridge  as  quickly  as  he  crost 
Sprang  into  Are  and  vanish'd,  tho'  I  yeam'd 
To  follow;  and  thrice  above  him  all  the  heaveni* 
Open'd  aud  blazed  with  thunder  such  as  seem'd 
Sbontings  of  all  the  sons  of  God :  and  first 
At  once  I  saw  him  Car  on  the  great  sea, 
In  silver-shining  armor  starry -clear; 
And  o'er  his  head  the  holy  vessel  hung 
Clothed  iu  white  samite  or  a  luminous  cloud. 
And  with  exceeding  swiftness  rap  the  boat. 
If  boat  it  were,— I  saw  not  whence  it  came. 
And  when  the  heavens  open'd  aud  blazed  again 
Roaring,  I  saw  him  like  a  silver  star,— 
And  had  he  set  the  sail,  or  had  the  boat 
Become  a  living  creature  clad  with  wings? 
And  o'er  his  head  the  holy  vessel  hnng 
Redder  than  any  rose,  a  joy  to  me. 
For  now  I  knew  the  veil  had  been  witbdr.iwn. 
Then  in  a  moment  when  they  blazed  again 
Opening,  I  saw  the  least  of  little  stars 
Down  on  the  waste,  and  straight  beyond  the  star  - 
I  saw  the  spiritual  city  and  all  her  spires 
And  gateways  in  a  glory  like  one  pearl. 
No  larger,  tbo'  the  goal  of  all  the  saints, 
Strike  from  the  sea ;  and  from  the  star  there  shot 
A  rose-red  sparkle  to  the  city,  and  there 
Dwelt,  and  I  knew  it  was  the  Holy  Grail, 
Which  never  eyes  on  earth  again  shall  see. 
Then  fell  the  floods  of  heaven  drowning  the  deep 
And  how  my  feet  recross'd  the  deathful  ridge 
No  memory  in  me  lives ;  but  that  I  touch'd 
The  chapel-doors  at  dawn,  I  know ;  and  thence 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


2in 


Taklti);  my  war-horae  flrom  the  holy  miin, 
(ilad  that  uo  phantom  vext  mo  mor«,  rclani'd 
To  wheoM  I  came,  the  i^ate  of  Arthur'*  wara." 

"O  brother,"  aak'd  Ambroalua,  "fur  In  aouth 
Thoee  ancient  book*  —  and  they  would  win  thee  — 

tMBBf 

Only  I  And  not  there  thta  Holy  Grail, 
With  miracles  and  mar\-els  Ukc  to  thoc, 
Not  all  unlike;  whlrh  onontlnie  I  read. 
Who  read  but  on  my  breviary  with  eaM, 
Till  my  head  Hwlmii ;  and  then  go  forth  and  paaa 
Down  to  the  little  thorpe  that  liee  ao  dotte, 
Aud  almoat  plaster'd  like  a  martins  uc«t 
To  these  old  walla,— and  mingle  with  onr  fnik ; 
And  knowing  every  honest  face  of  theirs. 
As  well  as  ever  shepherd  knew  his  sheep, 
And  every  homely  secret  In  their  hearts. 
Delight  myself  With  goteip  and  old  wives. 
And  Ills  aud  aches,  and  teethings,  lylngs-in. 
And  ralrthnti  sayings,  children  of  the  place. 
That  have  no  meaning  half  a  league  away: 
Or  lulling  random  squabbles  when  they  rise, 
Cbaffcrings  and  cbatterlngs  at  the  market-cross, 
Kcjolcc,  small  man,  in  this  small  world  of  mlue. 
Yea,  even  iu  their  hens  and  In  their  eggs : 

0  brother,  savlnj;  this  Sir  Galahad 

Came  ye  on  none  but  phantoms  in  your  quest. 
No  man,  no  woman  1" 

Then  Sir  Percivale : 
"All  men  to  one  so  bound  by  such  a  vow 
And  women  were  as  phantoms.    O  my  brother, 
Why  wilt  thou  ohamc  me  to  confess  to  thee 
IIuw  Tar  1  falter'd  from  my  quest  and  vow  f 
For  after  1  had  lain  so  many  night* 
A  bedmate  of  the  snail  and  eft  and  snake. 
In  grasa  and  burdock,  I  was  changed  to  wnn 
And  mcngre,  and  the  vision  had  not  come. 
And  then  I  chanced  upon  a  goodly  town 
With  one  great  dwelling  in  the  middle  of  it ; 
Whither  I  made,  and  there  was  I  disarmed 
By  maidens  each  as  fair  as  any  flower : 
But  when  they  led  me  into  hall,  behold 
The  Princei>8  of  that  castle  was  the  one, 
Brother,  and  that  one  only,  who  had  ever 
Made  my  heart  leap  ;  for  when  I  moved  of  old 
A  slender  page  about  her  father's  hall. 
And  she  a  slender  maiden,  all  my  heart 
Went  after  her  with  longing:  yet  we  twain 
Had  never  kiss'd  a  kiss,  or  vow'd  a  vow. 
Aud  now  I  came  upon  her  once  again. 
And  one  had  wedded  her,  and  he  was  dead. 
And  all  hin  land  and  wealth  and  state  were  hers. 
And  while  I  tarried,  every  day  she  set 
A  banquet  richer  than  the  day  before 
By  me;  for  all  her  longing  and  her  will 
Was  toward  me  as  of  old ;  till  one  fair  mom, 

1  walking  to  and  fro  beside  a  stream 
That  flat^h'd  across  her  orchard  underneath 
Her  castle  walls,  she  stole  upon  my  walk. 
And  calling  me  the  greatest  of  all  knights, 
Embraced  me,  and  so  kies'd  me  the  first  time, 
And  gave  herself  and  all  her  wealth  to  me. 
Then  I  remember'd  Arthur's  warning  word, 
That  most  of  us  would  follow  wandering  fires. 
And  the  quest  faded  In  my  heart.    Anon, 
The  heads  of  all  her  people  drew  to  me. 
With  supplication  both  of  knees  and  toncrue. 

'We  have  heard  of  thee:  thou  art  onr  greatest  knight: 

Our  Lady  says  it,  and  we  well  believe : 

W'ed  thou  our  Lady,  and  rule  over  us, 

And  thou  shalt  be  as  Arthur  in  our  land.' 

O  me, my  brother!   but  one  night  my  vow 

Burnt  me  within,  so  that  I  rose  and  fled, 

Bnt  wail'd  and  wept,  and  hated  mine  own  self^ 

And  ev'n  the  Holy  Quest,  and  all  bnt  her. 

Then  after  I  was  Join'd  with  Galahad 

Cared  not  for  her,  nor  any  thing  upon  earth." 


Then  aaid  the  monk,  "  Poor  m«u,  whan  yule  la 
cold. 
Must  b«  content  to  sit  by  Iltll«  Arw. 
And  this  am  I,  so  that  ye  cars  A>r  IM 
Ever  so  little :  yea,  and  bleat  bo  Oearoa 
That  brought  tbee  here  to  this  poor  booae  of  oon, 
Where  all  the  brothren  are  ao  hard,  to  warm 
My  cold  heart  with  a  n-lcnd :  but  O  the  pity 
To  find  thine  own  flml  love  once  more,— to  hold, 
Hold  her  a  wealthy  bride  within  thine  arm^ 
Or  all  but  hold,  aud  then— cast  her  aside. 
Foregoing  all  her  sweetness,  like  a  weed. 
For  we  tiiat  want  the  warmth  of  double  life. 
We  that  are  plagoMwlth  dreama  of  something  awoet 
lieyoud  all  sweetness  in  a  life  so  rich,— 
Ah,  blessed  Lord,  I  speak  too  earthly- wise, 
Seeing  I  never  stray'd  beyond  the  cell. 
But  live  like  an  old  badger  In  his  earth. 
With  earth  about  him  everywhere,  despite 
All  fast  and  penance.    Saw  ye  none  beside. 
None  of  your  knights  t" 

"  Yea  so,"  said  Percivale, 
"One  night  my  pathway  swerving  east,  I  saw 
The  pelican  on  the  caxquo  of  onr  Sir  Bora 
All  In  the  middle  of  the  rising  moon : 
And  toward  him  spurr'd  and  hall'd  him,  and  be  m<? 
And  each  made  Joy  of  either;  then  he  ask'd, 
'  Where  Is  he  t  hast  thou  seen  him— I^nccloi  ?    Once,* 
Said  good  Sir  Bors,  *  be  dash'd  across  me— mad. 
And  maddening  what  he  rode ;  and  when  I  cried, 
'Ridcst  thou  then  so  hotly  on  a  quest 
So  holy?"  Lancelot  shouted,  "Stay  me  not! 
I  have  been  the  sluggard,  and  I  ride  apace. 
For  now  there  is  a  lion  in  the  way." 
So  vanish'd.' 

"  Then  Sir  Bors  had  ridden  on 
Softly  and  sorrowing  for  our  Lancelot. 
Because  his  former  madness,  once  the  talk 
And  scandal  of  our  table,  had  returned ; 
For  Lancelot's  kith  and  kin  adore  him  so 
That  ill  to  him  Is  ill  to  them :  to  Bora 
Beyond  the  rest:  he  well  had  been  content 
Not  to  have  seen,  so  Lancelot  might  have  seen. 
The  holy  cup  of  healing ;  and,  indeed. 
Being  so  clouded  with  his  grief  and  love, 
Small  heart  was  his  after  the  holy  quest: 
If  God  would  send  the  vision,  well :  if  not. 
The  Quest  and  be  were  iu  the  hands  of  Heaven. 

"  And  then,  with  small  adventure  met,  Sir  Bon 
Rode  to  the  lonest  tract  of  all  the  realm. 
And  found  a  people  there  among  their  crags. 
Our  race  and  blood,  a  remnant  that  were  left 
Paynim  amid  their  circles,  and  the  stones 
They  pitch  up  straight  to  heaven  :  and  their  wise  men 
Were  strong  in  that  old  magic  which  can  trace 
The  wandering  of  the  stars,  and  scoflT'd  at  him. 
And  this  high  qnest  as  at  a  simple  thing: 
Told  him  he  follow'd— almost  Arthur's  words — 
A  mocking  fire :  '  what  other  fire  than  he. 
Whereby  the  blood  beats,  and  the  blossom  blows. 
And  the  sea  rolls,  and  all  the  world  Is  warni'df 
And  when  his  answer  chafed  them,  the  rough  crowd. 
Hearing  he  had  a  difl"crence  with  their  priests. 
Seized  him,  and  bound  and  plunged  him  Into  a  cell 
Of  great  piled  stones ;  and  lying  bounden  there 
In  darkness  thro'  innumerable  hours 
He  heard  the  hollow-ringing  heavens  sweep 
0%-er  him,  till  by  miracle— what  elsef- 
Heavy  as  It  wa^  a  great  stone  slipt  and  fell, 
Snch  as  no  wind  could  move:  and  thro'  the  gap 
Gllmmer'd  the  streaming  scud:  then  came  a  night 
Still  as  the  day  waa  loud ;  and  thro'  the  gap 
The  seven  clear  atars  of  Arthur's  Table  Itonnd, — 
For,  brother,  so  one  night,  because  they  roll 
Thro'  such  a  round  in  heaven,  we  named  the  stars. 


216 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


Rejoicing  in  ourpelves  and  in  our  king,— 
And  these  like  bright  eyes  of  familiar  friends 
In  on  him  shone,  'And  then  to  me,  to  me,' 
Said  good  Sir  Bors,  '  beyond  all  hopes  of  mine. 
Who  scarce  had  pray'd  or  ask'd  it  for  myself,— 
Across  the  seven  clear  stars,— O  grace  to  me  !— 
In  color  like  the  fingers  of  a  hand 
Before  a  burning  taper,  the  sweet  Grail 
Glided  and  past,  and  close  upon  it  peal'd 
A  Bharp  quick  thunder:'   afterwards  a  maid 
WTio  kept  our  holy  fciith  among  her  kin 
lu  secret,  entering,  loosed  and  let  him  go." 

To  whom  the  monk :  "  And  I  rfemember  now 
That  pelican  on  the  casque :  Sir  Bors  It  waa 
Who  spake  so  low  and  sadly  at  our  board ; 
And  mighty  reverent  at  onr  grace  was  he: 
A  square-set  man  and  honest;  and  his  eyes, 
An  out-door  sign  of  all  the  warmth  within, 
Smiled  with  his  lips,— a  smile  beneath  a  cload, 
But  Heaven  had  meant  it  for  a  sunny  one : 
Ay,  ay,  Sir  Bors,  who  else  ?  but  when  ye  reach'd 
The  city,  found  ye  all  your  knights  rctum'd, 
Or  was  there  sooth  In  Arthur's  prophecy? 
Tell  me,  and  what  said  eich,  and  what  the  king.' 

•  Then  answer'd  Perclvalc,  "And  that  can  I, 
Brother,  and  truly ;  since  the  living  words 
Of  so  great  men  as  Lancelot  and  our  king 
Pass  not  from  door  to  door  and  out  again, 
But  sit  within  the  bonse.    O,  when  we  reach'd 
The  city,  our  horses  stumbling  as  they  trode 
On  heaps  of  ruin,  hornless  unicorns, 
Crack'd  basilisks,  and  splinter'd  cockatrices, 
And  shattcr'd  talbots,  which  had  left  the  stones 
Raw,  that  they  fell  from,  brought  us  to  the  halL 

"And  there  sat  Arthur  on  the  daJs-throne, 
'And  those  that  had  gone  out  upon  the  Qnest,— 
Wasted  and  worn,  and  but  a  tithe  of  them, — 
And  those  that  had  not,  stood  before  the  king. 
Who,  when  he  saw  me,  rose,  and  bade  me  bail. 
Saying,  'A  welfare  in  thine  eye  reproves 
Our  fear  of  some  disastrous  chance  for  thee 
On  hill,  or  plain,  at  sea,  or  flooding  ford. 
So  fierce  a  gale  made  havoc  here  of  late 
Among  the  strange  devices  of  onr  kings ; 
Yea,  shook  this  newer,  stronger  hall  of  ours. 
And  from  the  statue  Merlin  moulded  for  us 
Half  wreucb'd  a  golden  wing;  but  now— the  quest. 
This  vision— hast  thou  seen  the  holy  cup. 
That  Joseph  brought  of  old  to  Glastonbury  V 

"  So  when  I  told  him  all  thyself  ba«t  heard, 
Ambrosius,  and  my  fresh  but  flxt  resolve 
To  pass  away  into  the  quiet  life. 
He  answer'd  not,  but,  sharply  turning,  ask'd 
Of  Gawain,  '  Gawain,  was  this  quest  for  thee  V 

" '  Nay,  lord,'  said  Gawain,  '  not  for  sncb  as  L 
Therefore  I  communed  with  a  saintly  man. 
Who  made  me  sure  the  quest  was  not  for  me. 
For  I  was  much  awearied  of  the  quest. 
But  found  a  silk  pavilion  in  a  field. 
And  merry  maidens  in  it ;  and  then  this  gale  - 
Tore  my  pavilion  from  the  tenting-pin. 
And  blew  my  merry  maidens  all  about 
With  all  discomfort;  yea,  and  but  for  this 
My  twelvemonth  and  a  day  were  pleasant  to  me.' 

"He  ceased;  and  Arthur  tnrn'd  to  whom  at  first 
lie  saw  not,  for  Sir  Bors,  on  entering,  pnsh'd 
Athwart  the  throng  to  Lancelot,  canght  his  hand, 
Held  it,  and  there,  half  hidden  by  him,  stood, 
UntU  the  king  espied  him,  saying  to  him, 
'  Hail,  Bors  !  if  ever  loyal  man  and  true 
Conld  see  it,  thou  hast  seen  the  Grail,'  and  Bors, 
'  Ask  me  not,  for  I  may  not  speak  of  it, 
I  saw  It :'  and  the  tears  were  in  his  eyes. 


"  Then  there  remain'd  but  Lancelot,  for  the  rest 
Spake  but  of  sundry  perils  in  the  storm, 
Perhaps,  like  him  of  Cana  in  Holy  Writ, 
Our  Arthur  kept  his  best  until  the  last. 
'Thou,  too,  my  Lancelot,' ask'd  the  King,  'my  friend, 
Our  mightiest,  hath  this  quest  avail'd  for  thee  ?' 

"  '  Our  mightiest !'  answer'd  Lancelot,  with  a  groan, 
'  O  king !'  and  when  he  paused,  methougbt  I  spied 
A  dying  fire  of  madness  in  his  eyes, 
'O  king,  my  friend,  if  friend  of  thine  I  be. 
Happier  are  those  that  welter  in  their  sin. 
Swine  in  the  mud,  that  cannot  see  for  slime. 
Slime  of  the  ditch ;— but  in  me  lived  a  sin 
So  strange,  of  such  a  kind,  that  all  of  pure. 
Noble,  and  knightly  in  me  twined  and  clung 
Round  that  one  sin,  until  the  wholesome  flower 
And  poisonous  grew  together,  each*  as  each. 
Not  to  be  pluck'd  asunder;  and  when  thy  knights 
Sware,  I  sware  with  them  only  in  the  hope 
That  could  I  touch  or  see  the  Holy  Grail 
They  might  be  pluck'd  asunder :  then  I  spake 
T»  one  most  holy  saint,  who  wept  and  said 
That  save  they  could  be  pluck'd  asunder  all 
My  qnest  were  but  in  vain ;  to  whom  I  vow'd 
That  I  would  work  according  as  he  wiU'd. 
.\ud  forth  I  went,  and  while  I  yeam'd  and  strove 
To  tear  the  twain  asunder  in  my  heart. 
My  madneaa  came  npon  me  as  of  old 
And  wtiipt  me  into  waste  fields  far  away. 
There  was  I  beaten  down  by  little  men, 
Mean  knigbts,  to  whom  the  moving  of  my  sword 
And  shadow  of  my  spear  had  been  enow 
To  scare  them  from  me  once ;  and  then  I  came 
All  in  my  folly  to  the  naked  shore. 
Wide  fiats  where  nothing  but  coarse  grasses  grew, 
But  such  a  blast,  my  king,  began  to  blow, 
So  lond  a  blast  along  the  shore  and  sea. 
Ye  could  not  bear  the  waters  for  the  blast, 
Tho'  beapt  in  mounds  and  ridges  all  the  sea 
Drove  like  a  cataract,  and  all  the  sand 
Swept  like  a  river,  and  the  clouded  heavens 
Were  shaken  with  the  motion  and  the  sound. 
And  blackening  in  the  sea-toam  swny'd  a  boat 
Half-swallow'd  in  it,  anchor'd  with  a  chain ; 
And  In  my  madness  to  myself  I  said, 
"  I  will  embark  and  I  will  lose  myself, 
And  in  the  great  aea  wash  away  my  sin." 
I  burst  the  chain,  I  sprang  into  the  boat. 
Seven  days  I  drove  along  the  dreary  deep. 
And  with  me  drove  the  moon  and  all  the  stars: 
And  the  wind  fell,  and  on  the  seventh  night 
I  heard  the  shingle  grinding  in  the  surge. 
And  felt  the  boat  abock  eartb,  and  looking  up 
Behold  the  enchanted  towers  of  Carbonek. 
A  castle  like  a  rock  npon  a  rock, 
With  chasm-like  portals  open  to  the  sea. 
And  steps  that  met  the  breaker :  there  was  none 
Stood  near  it  but  a  lion  on  each  side. 
That  kept  the  entry,  and  the  moon  was  fulL 
Then  ffom  the  boat  I  leapt,  and  np  the  stairs. 
There  drew  my  sword.    With  sudden-flaring  manes 
Those  two  great  beasts  rose  upright  like  a  man. 
Each  gript  a  shoulder,  and  I  stood  between, 
And,  when  I  would  have  smitten  them,  heard  a  voice, 
"  Doubt  not,  go  forward ;  If  thou  doubt,  the  beasts 
Will  tear  thee  piecemeal" ;  then  with  violence 
The  sword  was  dash'd  from  out  my  hand  and  feU. 
And  np  into  the  sounding  hall  I  past 
But  nothing  in  the  sounding  hall  I  saw. 
No  bench  nor  table,  painting  on  the  wall. 
Or  shield  of  knight ;  only  the  rounded  moon 
Thro'  the  tall  oriel  on  the  rolling  sea. 
But  always  in  the  quiet  house  I  heard, 
Clear  as  a  lark,  high  o'er  me  as  a  lark, 
A  sweet  voice  singing  in  the  topmost  tower 
To  the  eastward:  up  I  climb'd  a  thousand  steps 
With  pain:  as  in  a  dream  I  seem'd  to  climb 


PELLEA8  AND  ETTARRB. 


217 


Kuravcr:  at  the  iMt  I  KHch'd  a  door, 
A  liKht  WM  in  tb«  cruiuies,  and  I  beard 
t'Olury  and  Joy  and  honor  to  onr  Lord 
And  to  th«  Uoiy  Veaael  of  tb«  arall." 
Tben  In  my  madnoM  I  eaiay'd  the  door 
It  gave,  and  thro'  a  atormy  glare,  a  heat 
Aa  ttom  a  aeven-timea-heatad  Aimace,  I, 
Bleated  and  burnt,  and  blinded  aa  I  waa. 
With  such  a  ficrceneaa  that  I  awoon'd  away. 
O,  yet  methouKht  I  aaw  the  Holy  Qrail, 
All  pall'd  In  crinuon  aamlle,  and  around 
Great  angels,  awftil  abapee,  and  wings  and  eyea. 
And  but  fur  all  my  madneaa  and  my  Mn, 
And  tben  my  swooning,  I  had  sworn  I  saw 
That  which  I  saw ;  but  what  I  saw  was  vell'd 
And  cover'd;  and  this  quest  waa  not  for  me.' 

"So  speaking,  and  here  ceasing,  Lancelot  left 
The  hall  long  silent,  till  Sir  Oawain— nay. 
Brother,  I  need  not  tell  thee  foolish  wordv,— 
A  reckless  and  irreverent  kuight  was  he. 
Now  bolden'd  by  the  silence  of  his  king,— 
Well,  I  will  tell  thee :  '  O  king,  my  liege,'  he  said, 
*  Bath  Gawaiu  faii'd  iu  any  quest  of  thiue  t 
When  have  I  stinted  stroke  iu  fougbten  field? 
But  as  fo(  thine,  my  good  fricud,  rcrcivnlc, 
Thy  holy  nun  and  thuu  hnve  driven  nieu  mad, 
Yea,  made  our  mi^hiieDt  maddi-r  than  our  least. 
But  by  mine  eyes  and  by  mine  ears  I  swenr, 
.  will  be  deafer  than  the  blue-eyed  cat. 
And  thrice  as  blind  as  any  noonday  owl, 
To  holy  virgins  in  their  ecstasies, 
Henceforward.* 

"  *  Deafer,'  said  the  blameless  King, 
'Gawaiu,  and  blinder  unto  holy  things 
Hope  not  to  make  thyself  by  idle  vows. 
Being  too  blind  to  have  desire  to  see. 
Bat  if  indeed  there  came  a  sign  fh)m  heaven. 
Blessed  are  Bors,  Lancelot,  and  Pcrcivale, 
For  these  have  seen  according  to  their  eight. 
For  every  fiery  prophet  in  old  times, 
And  all  the  sacred  madness  of  the  bard, 
When  God  made  music  thro'  them,  could  but  speak 
His  ronsic  by  the  framework  and  the  chord, 
And  as  ye  saw  It  ye  have  spoken  truth. 

"'Nay— but  thou  crrest,  Lancelot:  never  yet 
Could  all  of  tnie  and  noble  in  knight  and  man 
Twine  round  one  sin,  whatever  it  might  be, 
With  such  a  closeness,  but  apart  there  grew, 
Save  that  he  were  the  swine  thou  spakest  of, 
Some  root  of  knighthood  and  pure  nobleness ; 
Whereto  see  thou,  that  it  may  bear  its  flower. 

'"And  spake  I  not  too  truly,.  O  my  knights f 
Was  I  too  dark  a  prophet  when  I  said 
To  thof>e  who  went  upon  the  Holy  Quest 
That  most  of  them  wonld  follow  wandering;  fires. 
Lost  in  the  quagmire,— lost  to  me  and  gone. 
And  left  me  gasing  at  a  barren  board. 
And  a  lean  order— scarce  return'd  a  tithe— 
And  ont  of  those  to  whom  the  vision  came 
My  preatest  hardly  will  J>elieve  he  saw ; 
Another  hath  beheld  it  aCar  otT, 
And  leaving  human  wrongs  to  right  themselves, 
Cares  but  to  pass  into  the  silent  life. 
And  one  hath  had  the  vision  ftico  to  face. 
And  now  his  chair  desires  him  here  in  vain, 
However  they  may  crown  him  otherwhere. 

"'And  some  among  you  held  that  if  the  king 
Had  seen  the  sight  he  wonld  have  sworn  the  vow: 
Not  easily,  seeing  that  the  king  most  guard 
That  which  he  rules,  and  is  but  as  the  hind 
To  whom  a  space  of  land  is  given  to  plough. 
Who  may  not  wander  from  the  allotted  field 
Before  bi«  work  be  done ;  bnt,  being  done. 


Let  vialons  of  the  night  or  of  the  day 

Come,  as  they  will ;  and  many  a  time  they  ehmr. 

Until  this  earth  he  walks  on  Mema  not  carili, 

This  light  that  strikaa  hl«  tytbkll  is  nut  lij:iii, 

This  air  that  smite*  hia  IbrabwHl  la  not  air 

But  vision— yea,  his  very  hand  and  foot— 

In  momenta  when  ho  feels  he  cannot  die, 

And  knows  binuelf  no  vision  to  hlmselC 

Nor  the  high  God  a  vision,  nor  that  One 

Who  rose  again:  ye  have  seen  what  ye  have  seen.' 

"So  spake  the  king:  I  knew  not  all  he  meant" 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 

Kino  Aarni-K  made  new  knights  to  fill  the  gap 
L«ft  by  the  Holy  Quest ;  and  as  he  sat 
In  hall  at  old  Caerleon,  the  high  doors 
Were  softly  snnder'd,  and  thro'  these  a  youth, 
Pelleas,  and  the  sweet  smell  of  the  fields 
Past,  and  the  sunshine  came  along  with  him. 

"Make  me  thy  knight,  because  I  know,  Sir  King, 
All  that  belongs  to  knighthood,  and  I  love," 
Such  was  bis  cry;  for  having  heard  the  king 
Had  let  proclaim  a  tournament— the  prize 
A  golden  circlet  and  a  knightly  sword. 
Full  fain  hud  Pelleas  for  his  lady  won 
The  golden  circlet,  for  himself  the  sword: 
And  there  were  those  who  knew  him  near  the  king 
And  promised  for  him :  and  Arthur  made  him  knight 

And  this  new  knight  Sir  Pelleas  of  the  isles— 
But  lately  come  to  his  inheritance. 
And  lord  of  many  a  barren  isle  was  he- 
Riding  at  noon,  a  day  or  twain  before. 
Across  the  forest  cali'd  of  Dean,  to  tlnd 
Caerleon  and  the  king,  bad  felt  the  sun 
Beat  like  a  strong  knight  on  his  helm,  and  reel'd 
Almost  to  falling  fk-om  bis  horse;  but  saw 
Near  him  a  mound  of  even-sloping  side. 
Whereon  a  hundred  stately  beeches  grew. 
And  here  and  there  great  hollies  under  them. 
But  for  a  mile  all  round  was  open  space, 
And  fern  and  heath:  and  slowly  Pelleas  drew 
To  that  dim  day,  then  binding  bis  good  horse 
To  a  tree,  cast  himself  down ;  and  as  be  lay 
At  random  looking  over  the  brown  earth 
Thro'  that  green-glooming  twilight  of  the  grove. 
It  scem'd  to  Pelleas  that  the  fern  without 
Burnt  as  a  living  fire  of  emeralds, 
So  that  his  eyes  were  dazzled  looking  at  it 
Then  o'er  it  crost  the  dimness  of  a  clond 
Floating,  and  once  the  shadow  of  a  bird 
Flying,  and  then  a  fawn ;  and  his  eyes  closed. 
And  since  be  loved  all  maidens,  but  no  maid 
In  special,  half  awake  he  whlsper'd,  "  Where  f 
O  where  f    I  love  thee,  tho'  I  know  thee  not 
For  fair  thou  art  and  pure  aa  Guinevere, 
And  I  will  make  thee  with  my  spear  and  sword 
As  famous— O  my  queen,  my  Guinevere, 
For  I  will  be  thine  Arthur  when  we  meet." 

Suddenly  vraken'd  with  a  sonnd  of  talk 
And  laughter  at  the  limit  of  the  wood. 
And  glancing  through  the  hoary  boles,  be  saw. 
Strange  as  to  some  old  prophet  ndgbt  have  seem'd 
A  vision  hovering  on  a  sea  of  fire. 
Damsels  in  divers  colors  like  the  clond 
Of  sunset  and  snnrise,  and  all  of  them 
On  horses,  and  the  horses  richly  trapt 
Breast-high  in  that  bright  line  of  bracken  stood : 
And  all  the  damsels  talk'd  confhsedly, 
And  one  was  pointing  this  way,  and  one  that, 
Becanse  the  way  was  lost 


218 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


Aud  Pelleas  rose, 
'  And  loosed  his  horse,  and  led  him  to  the  light 
There  she  that  seem'd  the  chief  among  them,  said, 
"In  happy  time  behold  our  pilot-star. 
Youth,  we  are  damsels-errant,  and  we  ride, 
Arm'd  as  ye  see,  to  tilt  against  the  knights 
There  at  Caerleon,  but  have  lost  our  way: 
To  right?  to  left?  straight  forward?  back  again? 
Which  ?  tell  us  qaickly." 

And  Pelloas  gazing  thought, 
"Is  Guinevere  herself  so  beautiful?" 
For  large  her  violet  eyes  look'd,  and  her  bloom 
A  rosy  dawn  kindled  in  stainless  heavens, 
Aud  round  her  limbs,  mature  in  womanhood, 
And  Blender  was  her  hand  and  small  her  shape. 
And  but  for  those  large  eyes,  the  haunts  of  scorn, 
She  might  have  seem'd  a  toy  to  trifle  with, 
And  pass  and  care  no  more.    But  while -he  gazed 
The  beauty  of  her  flesh  abash'd  the  boy. 
As  tho'  it  were  the  beauty  of  her  soul : 
For  as  the  base  man.  Judging  of  the  good, 
Puts  his  own  baseness  in  him  by  default 
Of  will  and  nature,  so  did  Pelleas  lend 
All  the  young  beauty  of  his  own  soul  to  hen. 
Believing  her;  and  when  she  spake  to  him, 
Stammer'd,  and  could  not  make  her  a  reply. 
For  out  of  the  waste  islands  bad  he  come. 
Where  saving  his  own  sisters  he  bad  known 
Scarce  any  but  the  women  of  bis  isles, 
RoQgh  wives,  that  langh'd  and  scream'd  against  the 

gnlls, 
Makers  of  nets,  and  living  from  the  sea. 

Then  with  a  slow  smile  tarnd  the  lady  round 
And  look'd  upon  her  people;  and  as  when 
A  stone  Is  flung  into  some  sleeping  tarn. 
The  circle  widens  till  It  lip  the  marge. 
Spread  the  slow  smile  thro'  all  her  company. 
Three  knights  were  there  among ;  and  they  too  smiled. 
Scorning  him ;  for  the  lady  was  Ettarre, 
And  she  was  a  great  lady  In  her  land. 

Again  she  said,  "O  wild  and  of  the  woods, 
Kuowcst  thou  not  the  fashion  of  our  speech  f 
Or  have  the  Heavens  but  given  thee  a  fair  (ace, 
Lacking  a  tongue?" 

"O  damsel,"  answer'd  he, 
"  I  woke  tfom  dreams ;  and  coming  ont  of  gloom 
Was  dazzled  by  the  sudden  light,  and  crave 
Pardon:  but  will  ye  to  Caerleon?    I 
Go  likewise:  shall  1  lead  you  to  the  King?" 
"Lead  then,"  she  said;  and  thro'  the  woods  they 

went. 
And  while  they  rode,  the  meaning  in  his  eyes, 
Ills  tenderness  of  manner,  and  chaste  awe. 
His  broken  utterances  and  bashfulness. 
Were  all  a  burden  to  her,  and  in  her  heart 
She  mutter'd,  "I  have  lighted  on  a  fool, 
Raw,  yet  so  stale !"    But  since  her  mind  was  bent 
On  hearing,  after  trumpet  blown,  her  name 
Aud  title,  "Queen  of  Beauty,"  in  the  lists 
Cried— and  beholding  him  so  strong,  she  thought 
That  peradventure  he  will  flght  for  me, 
And  win  the  circlet:  therefore  flatter'd  him. 
Being  so  gracious,  that  he  wellnigh  deem'd 
His  wish  by  hers  was  echo'd ;  and  her  knisrhts 
And  all  her  damsels  too  were  gracious  to  him. 
For  she  was  a  great  lady. 

And  when  they  reach'd 
Caerleon,  ere  they  past  to  lodging,  she, 
Taking  his  hand,  "O  the  strong  hand,"  she  said, 
"  See !  look  at  mine !  but  wilt  thou  flght  for  me, 
Aud  win  me  this  fine  circlet,  Pelleas, 
That  I  may  love  thee?" 


Then  his  helpless  heart 
Leapt,  and  he  cried,  "Ay!  wilt  thou  if  I  win?" 
"Ay,  that  will  I,"  she  answer'd,  and  she  laugh'd,   . 
And  Btraitly  nipt  the  hand,  and  flung  it  from  her; 
Then  glanced  askew  at  those  three  knights  of  hers, 
Till  all  her  ladies  laugh'd  along  with  her. 

"O  happy  world,"  thought  Pelleas,  "all,  meseems, 
Are  happy ;  I  tho  happiest  of  them  all." 
Nor  slept  that  night  for  pleasure  in  his  blood. 
And  green  wood-ways,  and  eyes  among  the  leaves: 
Then  being  on  the  morrow  knighted,  eware 
To  love  one  only.    Aud  as  he  came  away. 
The  men  who  met  him  rounded  on  their  heels 
Aud  wonder'd  after  him,  l>ecause  his  face 
Shone  like  the  countenance  of  a  priest  of  old 
Against  the  flame  about  a  sacrifice 
Kindled  by  fire  from  heaven :  so  glad  was  he. 

Then  Arthur  made  rast  banquets,  and  strange 

knights 
From  the  foar  winds  came  in :  and  each  one  sat, 
Tho'  served  with  choice  from  air,  laud,  stream,  and 

sea. 
Oft  in  mid-banqnet  measuring  with  his  eyes 
His  neighbor's  make  and  might:  and  PeUeos  look'd 
Noble  among  the  noble,  for  be  dreum'd 
His  lady  loved  him,  and  he  knew  himself 
Loved  of  the  King:  and  him  his  new-made  knight 
Worsbipt,  whose  lightest  whisper  moved  him  more 
Than  all  the  ranged  reasons  of  the  world. 

Then  blnsh'd  and  brake  the  morning  of  the  Jonstx, 
And  this  was  call'd  "The  Tournament  of  Youth:" 
For  Arthur,  loving  his  young  knight,  withheld 
His  older  and  bis  mightier  ft-om  the  Ilst^ 
That  Pelleas  might  obtain  his  lady's  love. 
According  to  her  promise,  and  remain 
Lord  of  the  tourney.    And  Arthur  had  the  Jousts 
Down  in  the  flat  field  by  tho  shore  of  Usk 
Holdeu:  the  gilded  parapets  were  crown'd 
With  faces,  and  the  great  tower  filled  with  eyes 
Up  to  the  summit,  and  the  trumpets  blew. 
There  all  day  long  Sir  Pelleas  kept  the  field 
With  honor :  so  by  that  strong  hand  of  bis 
The  sword  and  golden  circlet  were  achiored. 

Then  rang  the  shout  his  lady  loved:  the  heat 
Of  pride  and  glory  fired  her  face :  her  eye 
Sparkled ;  she  caught  the  circlet  from  his  lance, 
And  there  before  the  people  crown'd  herself: 
So  for  the  last  time  she  was  gracious  to  him. 

Then  at  Caerleon  for  a  space— her  look 
Bright  for  all  others,  cloudier  on  her  knight— 
Linger'd  Ettarre:  and  seeing  Pelleas  droop. 
Said  Guinevere,  "  We  marvel  at  thee  much, 

0  damsel,  wearing  this  unsnnny  face 

To  him  who  won  thee  glory!"    And  she  said, 
"  Had  ye  not  held  your  Lancelot  in  your  bower. 
My  Queen,  he  had  not  won."    Whereat  the  Queen, 
As  one  whose  foot  Is  bitten  by  an  ant. 
Glanced  down  upon  her,  tum'd  and  went  her  way. 

But  after,  when  her  damsels,  and  herself. 
And  those  three  knights  all  set  their  faces  home, 
Sir  Pelleas  foHow'd.    She  that  saw  him  cried, 
"  Damsels — and  yet  I  should  be  ashamed  to  say  it— 

1  cannot  bide  Sir  Baby.    Keep  him  back 
Among  yourselves.    Would  rather  that  we  had 
Some  rough  old  knight  who  knew  the  worldly  way, 
Albeit  grizzlier  than  a  bear,  to  ride 

And  Jest  with:  take  him  to  yon,  keep  him  off. 
And  pamper  him  with  papmeat,  if  ye  will. 
Old  milky  fables  of  the  wolf  and  sheep, 
Such  as  the  wholesome  mothers  tell  their  boya. 
Nay,  should  ye  try  him  with  a  merry  one 
To  find  his  mettle,  good:  and  if  he  fly  us, 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTABRE. 


210 


Snail  mAtl«rI  let  blm."    Thl*  her  datnMla  hoard, 
And  mludful  of  her  small  aud  cruel  hand, 
Tbajr,  doalng  round  htm  thro'  the  toamey  home, 
Acted  her  beat,  and  alwaya  ttom  bar  aid* 
Raatraln'd  him  with  all  manner  of  derlcs, 
So  that  he  could  not  cume  to  apeech  with  her. 
And  when  abe  galn'd  her  castle,  upvprang  the  bridge, 
Down  rang  the  grate  of  Iron  thro'  the  groore. 
And  be  waa  left  alone  In  open  Held. 

"Thefe  be  the  ways  of  ladles,"  Pplleaa  thonght, 
"To  those  who  love  tbcm,  trials  of  our  faith. 
Yea,  let  her  prove  me  to  the  uttermost, 
For  loyal  to  the  uttermost  am  I." 
So  made  bis  moan ;  and,  darkuesa  falling,  aought 
A  priory  not  far  off,  there  lt)dgcd,  but  rose 
With  morning  every  day,  and,  moist  or  dry, 
Full-ann'd  uim>u  his  cbar^jer  all  day  long 
Sat  by  the  walls,  and  lio  one  opcn'd  to  him. 

Aud  this  persisteuce  tum'd  her  scorn  to  wrath. 
Then  calling  her  three  kul>;bl9,  ebe  charged  tbem, 

"Out ! 
And  drive  bira  from  the  walls."   And  out  they  came. 
But  Pelleas  overthrew  tbcm  as  they  dnsh'd 
Against  him  one  by  one:  and  those  retuni'd. 
But  still  be  kept  his  watch  benentb  the  wall. 

• 

Thereon  her  wmth  became  a  bate;  and  once, 
A  week  beyond,  while  walking  on  the  walls 
With  her  three  kuighta,  she   pointed   downward, 

"Look, 
He  haunts  me— I  cannot  breathe— besieges  me; 
Down !  strike  him !  put  my  hate  into  your  stroke?. 
And  drive  him  from  my  walls."  And  down  they  went, 
And  Pelleas  overthrew  tbem  one  by  one ; 
And  flrom  the  tower  above  him  cried  Ettarre, 
"Bind  bim,  and  bring  him  in." 

no  beard  ber  voice; 
Then  let  the  strong  band,  which  bad  overthrown 
Her  minion-knights,  by  those  be  overthrew 
Be  bonndcn  straight,  and  so  tbey  brought  him  in. 

Then  when  he  came  before  Ettarre,  the  sight 
Of  her  rich  beauty  made  blm  at  one  glance 
More  bondsman  in  his  heart  than  in  his  bonds. 
Yet  with  good  cheer  he  spake,  "Behold  me,  Lady, 
A  prisoner,  aud  the  vassal  of  thy  will : 
And  if  thnn  keep  me  in  thy  donjon  here. 
Content  am  I  so  that  I  see  thy  face 
But  once  a  day:  for  I  have  sworn  my  vows, 
And  thou  hast  given  thy  pn>misc,  and  I  know 
That  all  these  pains  are  trials  of  my  faitb, 
And  that  thyself,  when  thon  hast  seen  me  strain'd 
And  silted  to  the  utmost,  wilt  at  length 
Yieid  me  thy  love  and  know  me  for  thy  knight" 

Then  she  began  to  rail  so  bitterly. 
With  all  ber  damsels,  be  was  stricken  mute : 
But  when  she  mock'd  his  vows  and  the  great  King, 
Lighted  on  words:  "For  pity  of  thine  own  self, 
Peace,  Lady,  peace:  is  he  not  thine  and  mine?" 
"  Thou  fool,"  she  said,  "  I  neve  beard  his  voice 
Bnt  long'd  to  break  away.    Unbind  bim  now. 
And  thrust  him  out  of  doora ;  for  save  he  be 
Fool  to  the  midmost  marrow  of  bis  bones. 
He  will  retnm  no  more."    And  those,  her  three, 
Langh'd,  and  unbound,  and  thrust  him  from  the  gate. 

And  af>cr  this,  a  week  beyond,  again 
She  call'd  them,  soying,  "Tbpre  he  watches  yet, 
There  like  a  dog  before  bis  master's  door! 
Kick'd,  be  retnms :  do  ye  not  hate  him,  ye  f 
Ye  know  yonrselves:  how  can  ye  bide  at  peace, 
AflVonted  with  his  (blaome  innocence? 
A  re  ye  bnt  creatures  of  the  board  and  bed, 
Vo  men  to  strike?    Fall  on  him  all  at  once. 


And  if  ye  alay  him  I  reck  not  i  If  yo  (Wll, 
Ulve  ye  the  slave  mine  order  to  bs  bound, 
Bind  him  as  heretofore,  and  bring  blm  In  i 
It  nay  be  ye  abatl  alay  bira  In  bis  bonds." 

She  spake :  and  at  her  will  they  coocb'd  their  spears. 
Three  against  one:  and  Uawalu  paaaing  by, 
Bound  upon  solitary  adventure,  saw 
Low  down  beneath  the  shadow  of  those  towers 
A  Tillany,  three  to  one :  and  thro'  hia  heart 
The  lire  of  honor  and  all  noble  deeds 
Flaah'd,  and  he  call'd,  "  I  strike  upon  thy  aide— 
The  catUflbr    "Nay,"  snid  Pelleas,  "but  forbeart 
lie  needs  no  aid  who  duth  bis  lady's  will." 

So  Oawsln,  looking  at  the  villany  done. 
Forbore,  but  in  his  heat  and  eagerness 
Trembled  and  quiver'd,  as  the  dog,  withheld 
A  moment  firom  the  vermin  that  be  sees 
Before  bim,  shivers,  ere  ho  springs  and  kills. 

And  Pelleaa  overthrew  them,  one  to  three ; 
And  they  rose  up,  aud  bound,  nnd  brought  him  In. 
Then  Arst  her  anger,  IcuvinK  Pelleas,  burn'd 
Full  on  her  knights  in  many  au  evil  name 
Of  craven,  weakling,  and  thrice-beaten  hound ; 
"  Yet,  take  him,  yo  that  scarce  are  flt  to  touch. 
Far  less  to  bind,  your  victor,  and  thruKt  him  out. 
And  let  who  will  release  lilni  from  his  bonds. 
And  if  he  comes  again"— there  she  brake  abort; 
An4  Pelleas  answer'd,  "Lady,  for  indeed 
I  loved  you  and  I  deem'd  you  beautiful, 
I  cannot  brook  to  see  your  beauty  marr'd 
Thro'  evil  spite:  and  If  ye  love  me  not, 
I  cannot  boar  to  dream  you  so  forsworn: 
I  had  liefer  ye  were  worthy  of  my  love. 
Than  to  be  loved  again  of  you — farewell ; 
And  tho'  ye  kill  my  hope,  not  yet  my  love, 
Vex  not  yourself:  ye  will  not  see  me  more." 

While  thus  he  spake,  she  gazed  upon  the  man 
Of  princely  bearing,  tho'  in  bonds,  and  thought, 
"Why  have  I  pnsh'd  him  from  me?  this  man  loves. 
If  love  there  be:  yet  him  I  loved  not.    Why? 
I  deem'd  him  fool?  yea,  so?  or  that  in  him 
A  something— was  it  nobler  than  myself?— 
Seem'd  my  reproach  ?    He  is  not  of  my  kind, 
lie  could  not  love  me,  did  he  know  me  well. 
Nay,  let  him  go— and  quickly."    And  her  knights 
Laugh'd  not,  but  thrust  him  boundeu  out  of  door. 

Forth  sprang  Oawain,  and  loosed  him  from  hIa 
bonds. 
And  flung  them  o'er  the  walls;  and  afterward. 
Shaking  his  hands,  as  from  a  lazar's  rng, 
"Faith  of  my  body,"  he  said,  "and  art  thou  not— 
Yea  thou  art  he,  whom  late  our  Arthur  made 
Knight  of  his  table ;  yea  and  he  that  w<m 
The  circlet?  wherefore  hast  thon  so  defamed 
Thy  brotherhood  in  me  and  ail  the  rest. 
As  let  these  caitiffs  on  thee  work  their  will?" 

And  Pelleas  answer'd,  "O,  their  wills  arc  hers 
For  whom  I  won  the  circlet;  and  mine,  hers. 
Thus  to  Ims  bounden,  so  to  see  her  face, 
Marr'd  tho'  it  be  with  spite  and  mockery  now. 
Other  than  when  I  found  her  in  the  woods; 
And  tho'  she  hath  me  bounden  bnt  in  spite. 
And  all  to  flout  roe,  whe;i  they  bring  me  in. 
Let  me  bonnden,  I  shall  see  her  Cace; 
Else  mtut  I  die  thro*  mine  nnhappineaa." 

And  Oawain  answer'd  kindly  tho'  in  scorn, 
"Why,  let  my  lady  bind  me  if  she  will, 
And  let  my  lady  beat  me  if  she  will : 
Bnt  an  she  send  her  delegate  to  thrall 
These  flchting  hands  of  mine— Christ  kill  me  then 
Bnt  I  will  slice  him  handless  by  the  wrist. 


220 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


And  let  my  lady  sear  the  Btnmp  for  him, 

Howl  as  he  may.    But  hold  me  for  your  friend: 

Come,  ye  know  nothing :  here  I  pledge  my  troth, 

Yea,  by  the  honor  of  the  Table  Kouud, 

I  will  be  leal  to  thee  and  work  thy  work. 

And  tame  thy  jailing  princess  to  thine  hand. 

Lend  me  thine  horse  aud  arms,  and  I  will  say 

That  1  have  slain  thee.    She  will  let  me  in 

To  hear  the  manner  of  thy  fight  and  fall ; 

Then,  when  I  come  within  her  counsels,  then 

From  prime  to  vespers  will  I  chant  thy  praise 

As  prowest  knight  and  truest  lover,  more 

Than  any  have  sung  thee  living,  till  she  long 

To  have  thee  back  In  lusty  life  again, 

Not  to  be  bound,  save  by  white  bonds  and  warm, 

Dearer  than  freedom.    Wherefore  now  thy  horse 

And  armor:   let  me  go:   be  comforted: 

Give  me  three  days  to  melt  her  fancy,  and  hope 

The  third  night  hence  will  bring  thee  news  of  gold." 

Then  Pellcas  lent  his  horse  and  all  his  arms, 
Saving  the  goodly  sword,  his  prize,  and  took 
Oawain's,  aud  said,  "  Betray  me  not,  but  help — 
Art  thoa  not  be  whom  men  call  ligbt-oMove  f " 

"Ay,"  said  Oawain,  "for  women  be  so  light" 
Then  bounded  forward  to  the  castle  walls, 
And  raised  a  bugle  hanging  from  his  neck, 
And  winded  it,  aud  that  so  musically 
That  all  the  old  echoes  bidden  in  the  wall 
Raug  out  like  hollow  woods  at  hnntingtide. 

Up  ran  a  score  of  damsels  to  the  tower ; 
"Avaunt,"  they  cried,  "our  lady  loves  tbee  not." 
But  Oawain  lifting  np  his  visor  said, 
"Gawain  am  I,  Gawain  of  Arthur's  court. 
And  I  have  slain  this  Pelleas  whom  ye  hate: 
Behold  his  horse  and  armor.    Open  gate, 
Aud  I  will  moke  yoa  merry." 

And  down  they  ran, 
rier  damsels,  crying  to  their  lady,  "Lol 
Pellcas  Is  dead— he  told  us— he  that  bath 
nis  horse  luid  armor:  will  ye  let  him  in? 
lie  Blew  him  !    Gawain,  Gawain  of  the  court, 
Bir  Gawain— there  be  waits  below  the  wall, 
Blowing  his  bugle  as  who  should  say  him  nay." 

And  so,  leave  given,  straight  on  thro'  open  door 
Rode  Oawain,  whom  she  greeted  courteously. 
"Dead,  Is  it  so?"  she  ask'd.    "Ay,  ay,"  said  he, 
"And  oft  In  dying  cried  upon  your  name." 
"Pity  on  him,"  she  anewei'd,  "a  good  knight. 
But  never  let  me  bide  one  hour  at  peace." 
"Ay,"  thought  Gawain,  "and  ye  be  fair  enow: 
But  I  to  your  dead  man  have  given  my  troth. 
That  whom  ye  loathe  him  will  I  make  ye  love." 

So  those  three  days,  aimless  about  the  land, 
liOst  in  a  doubt,  Pelleas  wandering 
Waited,  until  the  third  night  brought  a  moon 
With  promise  of  large  light  on  woods  and  ways. 

The  night  was  hot:  he  could  not  rest,  but  rode 
Ere  midnight  to  her  walls,  and  bound  his  horse 
Hard  by  the  gates.    Wide  open  were  the  gates. 
And  no  wafch  kept;  an^  in  thro'  these  he  past, 
Aud  heard  but  his  own  steps,  and  his  own  heart 
Beating,  for  nothing  moved  but  his  own  self. 
And  his  own  shadow.    Thbn  he  crost  the  court. 
And  saw  the  postern  portal  also  wide 
Yawning;  and  np  a  slope  of  garden,  all 
Of  roses  white  and  red,  and  wild  ones  mixt 
And  overgrowing  them,  went  on,  and  found. 
Here  too,  all  hush'd  below  the  mellow  moon. 
Save  that  one  rivulet  from  a  tiny  cave 
Came  lightening  downward,  and  so  spilt  itself 
Among  the  roses,  and  was  lost  again. 


Then  was  he  ware  that  white  pavilions  rose. 
Three  from  the  bushes,  gilden-peakt ;  in  one. 
Red  after  revel,  droned  her  lurdau  knights 
Slumbering,  and  their  three  squires  across  their  feet : 
In  one,  their  malice  on  the  placid  lip 
Froz'n  by  sweet  sleep,  four  of  her  damsels  lay : 
And  in  the  third,  the  circlet  of  the  jousts 
Bound  on  her  brow,  were  Gawain  and  Ettarre. 

Back,  as  a  hand  that  pushes  thro'  the  leaf 
To  find  a  nest  and  feels  a  snake,  he  drew: 
i  Back,  as  a  coward  slinks  from  what  he  feara 
I  To  cope  with,  or  a  traitor  proven,  or  hound 
!  Beaten,  did  Pelleas  in  an  utter  shame 
j  Creep  with  his  shadow  thro'  the  court  again, 
'  Fingering  at  his  sword-handle  until  he  stood 
:  There  on  the  castle-bridge  once  more,  and  thou^iit, 
"  I  will  go  back,  aud  slay  them  where  they  lie." 

And  so  went  back  and  seeing  them  yet  in  sleep 
Said,  "  Ye,  that  bo  dishallow  the  holy  sleep. 
Your  sleep  is  death,"  and   drew  the   sword,  and 

thought, 
"What!   slay  a  sleeping  knight?    the   King  hath 

bound 
And  sworn  me  to  tliis  brotherhood ;"  again, 
"Alaa  that  ever  a  knight  should  be  so  false." 
ThAi  tum'd,  and  so  return'd,  and  groaning  laid 
The  naked  sword  athwart  their  naked  throats. 
There  left  it,  and  tbem  sleeping;  and  she  lay, 
The  circlet  of  the  tourney  round  her  brows. 
And  the  sword  of  the  toamey  across  her  throat. 

And  forth  he  past,  and  mounting  on  bis  horse 
Stared  at  her  towers  that,  larger  than  themselves 
In  their  own  darkness,  throng'd  lnt(\  the  moon. 
Then  crush 'd  the  saddle  with  his  thiglis,  and  clench 'd 
His  hands,  and  madden'd  with  himself  and  moou'd : 

"  Would  they  have  risen  agabut  me  in  their  blood 
At  the  last  day  f    I  might  have  answcr'd  them 

I  Even  before  high  God.    O  towers  so  strong, 

1  Bo  solid,  would  that  even  while  I  gaze 
The  crack  of  earthquake  shivering  to  your  base 
Split  you,  and  Hell  burst  np  your  harlot  roofs 
Bellowing,  and  charr'd  you  thro'  and  thro'  withiu. 
Black  as  the  harlot's  heart— hollow  as  a  skull ! 

I  Let  the  fierce  east  stream  thro'  your  eyelet-l.ales. 
And  whirl  the  dust  of  harlots  round  and  round 

I  In  dung  and  nettles !  hiss,  snake— I  saw  him  there- 
Let  (he  fox  bark,  let  the  wolf  yelL    Who  yells 
Here  in  the  still  sweet  summer  night,  but  I— 
I,  the  poor  Pelleas  whom  she  call'd  her  fool? 
Fool,  beast — ^be,  she,  or  I  f    myself  most  fool; 
Beast  too,  as  lacking  human  wit — disgraced, 
DIshonor'd  all  for  trial  of  true  love- 
Love  f — we  be  all  alike:  only  the  king 
nath  made  ns  fools  and  liars.    O  noble  vows ' 

0  great  and  sane  and  simple  race  orbnites 
That  own  no  lust  because  they  have  no  law! 
For  why  should  I  have  loved  her  to  my  shame  f 

1  loathe  her,  as  I  loved  her  to  my  shame. 
I  never  loved  her,  I  but  lusted  for  her— 
Away — " 

He  dash'd  the  rowel  into  his  horse. 
And  bounded  forth  and  vanish'd  thro'  the  night 

Then  she,  that  felt  the  cold  touch  on  her  throat. 
Awaking  knew  the  sword,  and  turn'd  herself 
To  Gawain  :  "  Liar,  for  thou  hast  not  slain 
This  Pellcas !  here  he  "stood  aud  might  have  slaiu 
Me  and  thyself    And  he  that  tells  the  tale 
Says  that  her  ever-veering  fancy  tnrn'd 
To  Pelleas,  as  the  one  true  knight  on  earth, 
And  only  lover;  and  thro'  her  love  her  life 
Wasted  and  pined,  desiring  him  in  vain. 


TUB  PASSING  OF  ARTUIK. 


sst 


But  he  by  wild  tod  way,  for  half  tlM  nlgtit. 
And  uvcr  b«rd  and  auft,  alriklog  Um  aod 
From  out  the  aoft,  th«  »\uitk  ftam  off  Um  hard, 
Rode  tut  the  star  above  the  wakening  ran, 
Beside  that  tower  where  Perdvale  was  oowl'd. 
Glanced  from  the  rosy  forehead  of  the  dawn. 
For  so  the  words  were  flash'd  Into  his  heart 
Be  knew  not  whence  or  wherefore :  "  O  sweet  star, 
Fnre  on  the  virgin  forehead  of  the  dawn." 
And  there  he  would  have  wept,  bat  folt  his  eyes 
Harder  and  drier  than  a  foanuln  bed 
In  sammer-  thither  came  the  village  girls 
And  Unger'd  talking,  and  they  come  no  more 
Till  the  sweet  heavens  have  flll'd  It  from  the  heights 
Again  with  living  waters  In  the  change 
Of  seasons ;  hard  his  eyes ;  harder  his  heart 
Seem'd :  but  so  weary  were  his  limbs,  that  he, 
Oasplng,  "Of  Arthur's  hall  am  I,  but  here. 
Here  let  me  rest  and  die,"  cast  himself  down, 
And  guird  his  griefli  In  Inmost  sleep ;  so  lay, 
Till  shaken  by  a  dream,  that  Oawaln  flred 
The  hall  of  Merlin,  and  the  morning  star 
Reel'd  In  the  smuke,  brake  into  flame,  and  fell. 

He  woke,  and  being  ware  of  some  one  ni);h. 
Sent  hands  upon  him,  as  to  tear  him,  crying, 
"False  I  and  I  held  thoe  pure  as  Ouinevere." 

Bnt  Percivale  Btood  near  him  and  replied, 
"Am  I  but  fal»o  as  Guinevere  is  pure? 
Or  art  thou  mazed  with  dreams?  or  being  one 
Of  our  free-spoken  Table  host  not  heard 
That   Lancelot "  — there   he    cbcck'd    bimgclf  and 
paused.  * 

Then  fared  it  with  Sir  Pelleos  as  with  one 
Who  gets  a  wound  in  battle,  and  the  sword 
That  made  it  plunges  thro'  the  wound  again. 
And  pricks  it  deeper:  and  he  shrank  and  wail'd, 
"Is  the  Queen  false?"  and  Percivale  was  mute. 
"  Have  any  of  our  Round  Table  held  their  vows  ?" 
And  Percivale  made  answer  not  a  word. 
"  Is  the  king  true  ?"    "  The  king  t"  said  Percivale. 
"Wty  then  let  men  couple  at  once  with  vvolvpf. 
What!  art  thou  mad?" 

Bnt  Pelleas,  leaping  np, 
Ran  thro'  the  doors  and  vaulted  on  his  horse 
And  fled:  small  pity  upon  his  horse  had  he. 
Or  on  hlroself,  or  any,  and  when  he  met 
A  cripple,  one  that  held  a  hand  for  alms — 
Unncn'd  as  be  was,  and  like  an  old  dwarf-elm 
That  turns  Its  back  on  the  salt  blast,  the  boy 
Paused  not  but  overrode  him,  shouting,  "False, 
And  false  with  Oawain !"  and  so  left  him  bruised 
And  batter'd,  and  fled  on,  and  hill  and  wood 
Went  ever  streaming  by  him  till  the  gloom, 
That  follows  on  the  turning  of  the  world, 
Darken'd  the  common  path :  ho  twitch'd  the  rein!>, 
And  made  bis  l)east  that  better  knew  it,  swerve 
Kow  off  it  and  now  on ;  but  when  he  saw 
High  up  in  heaven  the  hall  that  Merlin  built. 
Blackening  against  the  dead-green  stripes  of  even, 
"Black  nest  of  rats,"  he  groan 'd,  "ye  build  too 
high." 

Not  long  thereafter  fh)m  the  city  gates 
Issued  Sir  Lancelot  riding  airily, 
VVarm  with  a  gracious  parting  from  the  Queen, 
Peace  at  bis  heart,  and  gazing  at  a  star 
And  marvelling  what  it  was:  on  whom  the  boy. 
Across  the  silent  seeded  meadow.grass 
Borne,  closh'd :  and  Lancelot,  saying,  "  What  name 

hast  thou 
That  ridest  here  so  blindly  and  so  hard?" 
"I  have  no  name," he  shouted,  "a  scourge  am  I, 
To  lash  the  treasons  of  the  Table  Round." 
"Yea,  but  thy  name?"    "I  have  many  names,"  be 

cried: 


!it)d  bate  and  evil  fiuae, 
I  I  pus  Ut  blast 
nrriot  nnd  the  Qoeen." 
1'.  thou  pass." 
'  L'ither  kult;lit 


"I  am  wruri,   ....I  -I 
And  likr 
And  blii>' 
"Firtt  over  ii" 
"  Fight  tberel< ' 

Drew  back  a  h| .  ..uMd,  at  onco 

The  weary  steed  of  ivilcns  iloutideriug  flung 
His  rider,  who  called  out  from  the  <lark  field, 
"Thou  art  false  as  Hell :  slay  me :  I  have  no  sword. " 
Then  Lancelot,  "  Yea,  between  thy  lips— and  sharp : 
But  here  will  I  dkedge  It  by  thy  death." 
"i}lay  then,"  be  shriek'd,  "my  will  is  to  be  slain." 
And  Lancelot,  with  bis  heel  upon  the  fsH'n, 
Itolling  his  eyes,  a  moment  sUkkI,  then  spake : 
"Klsc,  weakling:  I  am  Lancelot;  say  thy  say." 

And  Lancelot  slowly  rode  his  war-horse  back 
To  Cnmelot,  and  Sir  I'ellcas  in  brief  while 
Caught  his  unbroken  limbs  fh)m  the  dark  field, 
.\nd  folluwM  to  the  city.    It  chanced  that  both 
Brake  into  hall  together,  worn  and  pale. 
There  with  her  knights  and  dames  was  Guinevere. 
Full  wonderingly  she  gazed  on  Lancelot 
So  soon  returu'd,  and  then  on  Pelleas,  him 
Who  bad  not  greeted  her,  but  cast  himself 
Dowu    on    a    bench,   hard-breathlog.      "Have    ye 

fought  ?" 
She  ask'd  of  Lancelot    "  Ay,  my  Qneen,"  he  said. 
"And    thou    hast    overthrown    him?"     "Ay,  my 

Queen." 
Then  she,  turning  to  Pelleas,  "  O  young  knight. 
Hath  the  great  heart  of  knighthood  in  thee  fail'd 
So  flir  thou  canst  not  bide,  unfrowardly, 
A  fall  from  him  ?"    Then,  for  he  answcr'd  not, 
"Or  hast  thou  other  griefs?    If  I,  the  Queen, 
May  help  them,  loose  thy  tongue,  and  let  me  know." 
But  Pelleas  lifted  up  an  eye  so  flcrce 
6ho  quail'd ;  and  he,  hissing,  "  I  have  no  sword," 
Sprang  from  the  door  into  tJie  dark.    The  Queen 
Look'd  hard  upon  her  lover,  he  on  her; 
And  each  foresaw  the  dolorous  day  to  be: 
And  all  talk  died,  as  in  a  grove  all  song 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  some  bird  of  prey. 
Then  a  long  silence  came  upon  the  hall, 
And  Modrcd  thought,  "The  time  is  bard  at  hand." 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 

That  story  which  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere 
First  made  and  latest  left  of  all  the  knights. 
Told,  when  the  man  was  no  more  than  a  voice 
In  the  white  winter  of  his  age,  to  those 
With  whom  he  dwelt,  new  (aces,  other  minds. 

Before  that  last  weird  battle  in  the  West 
There  came  on  Arthur  sleeping,  Oawain  kill  d 
In  Lancelot's  war,  the  ghost  of  Oawain  blown 
Along  a  wandering  wind,  and  past  his  ear 
Went  shrilling,  "  Hollow,  hollow  all  delight  I 
Hail,  king !  to-morrow  thou  shalt  pass  sway. 
Farewell !  there  is  an  isle  of  rest  for  thee. 
And  I  am  blown  along  a  wandering  wind. 
And  hollow,  hollow, "hollow  all  delight." 
And  fainter  onward,  like  wild  birds  that  change 
Their  season  In  the  night  and  wail  their  way 
From  clond  to  cloud,  down  the  long  wind  the  dream 
Shriil'd :  but  in  going  mingled  with  dim  cries 
Far  In  the  moonlit  haze  among  the  bills 
As  of  some  lonely  dty  sack'd  by.  night. 
When  all  is  lost,  and  wife  and  child  with  wall 
Pass  to  new  lords ;  and  Arthur  woke  aod  call'd, 
"Who  spake?    A  dream.    O  light  upon  the  wind. 
Thine,  Oawain,  was  the  voice — are  these  dim  cries 
Thine?  or  doth  all  that  haunts  the  waste  and  wild 
Mourn,  knowing  it  will  go  along  with  me  ?" 


222 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR, 


This  heard  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  and  epake,— 
"O  me,  my  king,  let  pass  whatever  will, 
Elves,  and  the  harmless  glamour  of  the  field ; 
But  iu  their  stead  thy  name  and  glory  cling 
To  all  high  places  like  a  golden  cloud 
Forever:  but  as  yet  thou  ehalt  not  pass. 
Light  was  Gawain  iu  life,  and  light  in  death 
Is  Gawain,  for  the  ghost  is  as  the  man ; 
And  care  not  thou  for  dreams  from  him,  but  rise — 
I  hear  the  steps  of  Modred  iu  the  West, 
And  with  him  many  of  thy  people,  and  knights 
Once  thine,  whom  thou  hast  loved,  but  grosser  grown 
Thau  heathen,  spitting  at  their  vows  and  thee. 
Ilight  well  in  heart  they  know  thee  for  the  king. 
Arise,  go  forth  and  conquer  as  of  old." 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere, — 
"Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  West 
Whereto  we  move,  than  when  we  strove  in  youth, 
And  thrust  the  heathen  from  the  Roman  wall. 
And  shook  him  thro'  the  North.     Ill  doom  is  mine 
To  war  against  my  people  and  my  knights, 
The  king  who  fights  his  people  fights  bimselC 
Aud  they  my  knights  who  loved  me  once  the  stroke 
That  strikes  them  dead  is  as  my  death  to  me. 
Yet  let  us  hence,  and  find  or  feel  a  way 
Thro'  this  blind  haze,  which  ever  since  I  saw 
One  lying  in  the  dust  at  Almesbary, 
lliith  folded  in  the  passes  of  the  world." 

Then  rose  the  king  and  moved  his  host  by  night, 
And  ever  push'd  Sir  Modred,  league  by  leagae. 
Back  to  the  sunset  bound  of  Lyonnesee, — 
A  land  of  old  upheaven  from  the  abyss , 
By  fire,  to  sink  into  the  abyss  again ; 
Where  fragments  of  forgotten  peoples  dwelt, 
Aud  the  long  mountain  ended  in  a  coast 
Of  evsr-shifting  sand,  and  far  away 
The  phantom  circle  of  a  moaning  sea. 
There  the  pursuer  could  pursue  no  more, 
And  he  that  fled  no  further  fly  the  king; 
And  there,  that  day  when  the  great  light  of  heaven 
Bum'd  at  bis  lowest  in  the  rolling  year, 
On  the  waste  sand  by  the  waste  sea  they  doeed. 
Nor  ever  yet  had  Arthur  fonght  a  fight 
Like  this  last,  dim,  weird  battle  of  the  West 
A  death-white  mist  slept  over  sand  and  sea: 
Whereof  the  chill,  to  him  who  breathed  it,  drew 
Down  with  his  blood,  till  all  his  heart  was  cold 
With  formless  fear,  and  ev'n  on  Arthur  fell 
Confusion,  since  he  saw  not  whom  he  fought. 
For  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in  the  mist. 
And  friend  slew  friend  not  knowing  whom  he  slew ; 
And  some  had  visions  out  of  golden  youth, 
And  some  beheld  the  faces  of  old  ghosts 
Look  In  upon  the  battle;  and  in  the  mist 
Was  many  a  noble  deed,  many  a  base. 
And  chance  and  craft  and  strength  In  single  fights. 
And  ever  and  anon  with  host  to  host 
Shocks,  and  the  splintering  spear,  the  hard  mail  hewn, 
Shield-breakings,  and  the  clash  of  brands,  the  crash 
Of  battle-axes  on  shatter'd  helms,  and  shrieks 
After  the  Christ,  of  those  who  falling  down 
Looked  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw  the  mist; 
And  shouts  of  heathen  and  the  traitor  knights. 
Oaths,  insult,  fllth,  and  monstrtJus  blasphemies, 
Sweat,  writhings,  anguish,  laboring  of  the  lungs 
In  that  close  mist,  aud  cryings  for  the  light. 
Moans  of  the  dying  and  voices  of  the  dead. 

Last  as  by  some  one  death-bed,  after  wail 
Of  suffering,  silence  follows,  or  thro'  death 
Or  deathlike  swoon,  thus  over  all  that  shore, 
Save  for  some  whisper  of  the  seething  seas, 
A  dead  hush  fell ;  but  when  the  dolorous  day 
Grew  drearier  toward  twilight  falling,  came 
A  bitter  wind,  clear  from  the  North,  and  blew 
The  mist  aside,  and  with  that  wind  the  tide 


Rose,  and  the  pale  king  glanced  across  the  field 

Of  battle;  but  no  man  was  moving  there; 

Nor  any  cry  of  Christian  heard  thereon. 

Nor  yet  of  heathen ;  only  the  wan  wave 

Brake  in  among  dead  faces,  to  and  fro 

Swaying  the  helpless  hands,  and  up  and  down 

Tumbling  the  hollow  helmets  of  the  fallen. 

And  shiver'd  brands  that  once  had  fought  with  Rome 

And  rolling  far  along  the  gloomy  shores 

The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to  be. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere, 
And  whiter  than  the  mist  that  all  day  long 
Uad  held  the  field  of  battle  was  the  king. 

"Ilearest  thou  this  great  voice  that  shakes  the 
world. 
And  wastes  the  narrow  realm  whereon  we  move, 
And  beats  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead. 
My  dead,  as  tho'  they  had  not  died  for  me  ?— 

0  Bedivere,  for  on  my  heart  hath  fall'n 
Confusion,  till  I  know  not  what  I  am. 
Nor  whence  I  om,  nor  whether  I  be  king. 
Behold,  I  eeem  but  king  among  the  dead." 

Then  spake  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere,  "  My  king, 
King  everywhere!  and  so  the  dead  have  kings, 
There  aUo  will  I  worship  thee  as  king. 
Yet  still  thy  life  is  whole,  and  still  I  live 
Who  love  thee ;  but  who  hates  thee,  he  that  brought 
The  hcnthou  back  among  us,  yonder  stands, 
Modred,  onbann'd,  the  traitor  of  thine  honse." 

• 
Then  spake  the  King,  "  My  honse  hath  been  my 
doom. 
But  call  not  thou  this  traitor  of  my  honse 
Who  hath  but  dwelt  beneath  one  roof  with  me. 
My  bouse  are  rather  they  who  sware  my  vows. 
Yea,  even  while  they  brake  them,  own'd  me  king. 
And  well  for  thee,  saying  In  my  dark  hour. 
When  all  the  purport  of  my  tbroue  hath  fall'd. 
That  quick  or  dead  thou  boldest  me  for  king. 
King  am  I,  whatsoever  be  their  cry ; 
And  one  last  act  of  kinghood  shalt  thon  see 
Yet  ere  I  pass."    And,  uttering  this,  the  king 
Made  at  the  man :  then  Modred  smote  his  liege 
Hard  on  that  helm,  which  many  a  heathen  sword 
Had  beaten  thin,  while  Arthur  at  one  blow, 
Striking  the  lost  stroke  with  Excalibnr, 
Slew  him,  and  all  but  slain  himself  he  felL 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea ; 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fall'n  in  Lyonnesse  about  their  lord. 
King  Arthur:  then,  because  bis  wound  was  deep 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him. 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chaucel  with  a  broken  cross. 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  fnlL 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
"The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record. .  Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep— the  men  I  loved.    I  think  that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time. 
Delight  our  souls  ^vith  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 

1  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more— but  let  what  will  be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  mom. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 


Tits  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR 


228 


Which  wu  my  i   "      '  ibcrtBt  how 

In  thoM  old  du  it  arm 

Rom  up  ttom  •'  ^  u«*i 

Clothed  ill  whilo  fttuiUo,  t»>«ilc,  Muiitlorful, 
Uuldlui;  tho  sword— Mid  how  I  ruw'd  acroM 
Aud  took  it,  and  have  worn  It,  llko  a  klngi 
And,  wherMoewr  I  am  aung  or  u>ld 
In.after-tlm«,  this  also  ahall  b«  known: 
Bnt  now  delay  not:  take  Kxcalibur, 
And  Aiui:  lilin  far  Into  the  middle  nier< 
Watch  what  thou  aetet,  and  llgbliy  brlii^  ■••<:  iuii.i.  ' 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedlrerei 
"  It  la  not  meet.  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thoa, 
Aidlesa,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  barm  a  wonnded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  heat  will  all  )>crrurni  nt  full, 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  ibce  word." 

So  aaytng,  from  the  miu'd  shrine  he  stcpt 
And  In  tho  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Wlioro  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  tbcm  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.    lie,  stepping  down 
By  sigsag  paths,  aud  Juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  sbiulug  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibnr, 
Aud  o'er  him  drawing  It,  the  winter  moon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt : 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  Jnciuth-work 
or  subtlest  Jewelry.    Ue  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood. 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind. 
In  set  to  throw:  but  at  the  lost  it  seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conccal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  water-flags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  kiug. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bediverc : 
"  Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which  I  gave  ? 
What  Is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  bast  heard  i" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bediverc : 
"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  recdN 
Aud  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale: 
"Thou  hast  betray 'd  thy  nature  and  thy  name. 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  besecm'd 
Thy  Icalty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  foUow'd,  either  hand. 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  tliee,  quickly  go  again 
Aa  thoa  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
1  bade  tbec,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  tho  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere, 
Connting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix'd  in  thought ; 
But  when  be  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt. 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud  :— 

"And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away. 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Shonid  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth, 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this.  If  this  were  done  1 
What  harm,  undone  T  deep  barm  to  disobey. 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
An  act  nnprofltabic,  against  bimselff 
The  king  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 


What  record,  or  what  rvlle  of  my  lord 
.'Should  be  to  after-time,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt  f  but  were  this  kept, 
Stored  In  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kiiiga. 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  Joust  of  arma, 
Saying,  'King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 
NMne  years  she  wrought  ii,  sitting  In  the  dMpt 
rp«>"  C^o  hidden  biiscs  uf  tho  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  In  the  after-time 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were  lost." 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit. 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
Aud  ao  strode  back  slow  to  tho  wounded  kiug. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily : 
"  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  T  or  what  hast  beard  t" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  t 
"  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeda." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  mnch  In  wrath : 
"  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  nntrue, 
rnknightly,  traitor-hearted  1    Woe  is  me  I 
.\uthority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
I^id  widow'd  of  tho  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.    I  aee  thee  what  thou  art. 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights 
In  whom  should  meet  the  ofllces  of  all. 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  tho  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence: 
Bnt,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibnr, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  tbee  with  my  hands." 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bediverc,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush  beds,  and  clulch'd  the  aword. 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.    The  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  In  the  splendor  of  the  moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd  in  an 

arch. 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  mom. 
Seen  where  the  moving  Isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibnr : 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  king. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker  breath  • 
"Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  beard,  or  seen  i" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gema 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  aaw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 
So  great  a  miracle  of  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him ; 
Bnt  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  /in  arm, 
Clothed  In  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
That  canght  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing  hard  t 
"My  end  draws  nigh;  'tis  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  ahonlders  to  receive  my  weight. 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin  ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 


224 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm. 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
Aa  in  a  picture,    llim  Sir  Bedivere 
Kemorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears. 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words, 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  kuee. 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands. 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk'd.  King  Arthur  panted  hard, 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.    So  sigh'd  the  king. 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear,  "Quick,  quick  ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge. 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he  walk'd, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.    His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a  guad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  ley  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  blm,  as  he  based 
Ills  feet  on  juts  of  slipiiery  crag  that  rang 
8har{>-8mltten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo !  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 
Dark  flu  a  funeral  scarf  fh>m  stem  to  (>tern. 
Beneath  them ;  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms 
Bkick-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream— by  these 
Throe  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold— and  from  them 

rose 
A  cry  that  shlvcr'd  to  the  tingling  stars. 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrllla 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 

Then  mnrmur'd  Arthur,  "  Place  me  In  the  barge," 
Bu  to  the  barge  they  came.    There  those  three  Qneens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  king,  and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  bead  npon  her  lap, 
Aud  loosed  the  sbatter'd  casque,  and  chafed  bis 

hands. 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining  load, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood :  for  all  his  bee  was  white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither'd  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east : 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cnisses  dash'd  with  drops 
Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  Instroos  carls— 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  snn 
High  from  the  duis-throne— were  parch'd  with  dast ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed  his  lips. 
So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  king; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest. 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament. 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

"Then"  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
"Ahl  my  lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead. 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance, 
Aud  every  chance  brought  oat  a  nob!e  knight. 


Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that  led 

The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 

But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dissolved. 

Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world ; 

And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless. 

And  the  days  darken  roand  me,  and  the  years. 

Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds." 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the  barge . 
"The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new. 
And  God  folfllls  himself  in  many  ways. 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 
Comfort  thyself:  what  comfort  is  in  me? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure !  but  thou. 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray  for  my  soul.    More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.    Wherefore,  let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain. 
If,  knowing  QoA,  they  lift  not  bands  of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them  friend  ? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewelL    I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thon  scCst — If  Indeed  I  go— 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
"To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion ; 
Where  fklls  not  hall,  or  rain,  or  any  snow. 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly ;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard-lawns 
Aud  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  summer  sea, 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievoos  wound. " 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted  swnn 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Rnflles  her  pare  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.    Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Bevolving  many  memories,  till  the  bull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

At  length  he  groan'd,  and  taming  slowly  clomb 
The  last  bard  footstep  of  that  iron  crag ; 
Thence  mark'd  the  black  hull  moving  yet,  and  cried, 
"  He  passes  to  be  king  among  the  dead. 
And  after  healing  of  his  grievous  wound 
He  comes  again ;  but— if  be  come  no  more — 
O  me,  be  yon  dark  Queens  in  yon  black  boat, 
Who  shrick'd  and  wall'd,  the  three  whereat  we  gazed 
On  that  high  day,  M-hen,  clothed  with  Ihing  light. 
They  stood  before  his  throne  In  silence,  friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his  need  ?' 

Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem'd  there  came,  bat  faint 
As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world. 
Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry. 
Sounds,  as  If  some  fair  city  were  one  voice 
Around  a  king  returning  from  his  wars. 

Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about,  and  clomb 
E'en  to  the  highest  he  could  climb,  aud  saw. 
Straining  bis  eyes  beneath  an  arch  of  hand. 
Or  thought  be  saw,  the  speck  that  bare  the  king, 
Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the  deep 
Somewhere  far  off,  pass  on  and  on,  and  go 
From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 
And  the  new  sun  rose  bringing  the  uew  year. 


tiif:  nortmrrn  farmer  sss 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  NORTHERN  FARMER. 

MEW  STTLB. 


Dosm't  thon  'ear  my  *eiM*B  lags,  as  they  cantera  awaty  t 
Propntty,  proputty,  propntty  — that  '«  what  I  'care  'em  tatty. 
Propatty,  proputty,  propntty  —  Sam,  thuu  '«  au  aM  for  thy  paaina. 
Theer  'a  moor  acusc  1'  ouo  o'  'is  legs  nor  In  all  thy  braalus. 

11. 

Wot  — theer  'a  a  craw  to  pinck  wi'  tha,  Sam:  yon  'a  paiBon'a  'onao— . 
Dosn't  thou  knaw  that  a  man  mun  be  eiither  a  man  or  a  monflef 
Time  to  think  on  it  then ;  for  thou  '11  be  twenty  to  weettk.* 
Propatty,  propatty  —  woft  then  woi  —  let  ma  'ear  myaio  apeak. 

IIL 

Me  an'  thy  mother,  Sammy,  'as  bettn  »-talkln'  o'  thee; 
Thou  'b  been  talkln'  to  mathcr,  an'  she  be&n  a  tellln'  It  me. 
Thou  'II  not  marry  for  inunny  —  thou  's  sweet  upo'  pan<on'8  lasa  — 
Nott  —  thou  'II  marry  for  luvv  —  an'  we  boiith  on  ub  thinks  tha  an  ass. 

rv. 

SeeS'd  her  todaily  jfo-l  by  — Sa&int's-datty  — thay  was  ringing  the  bells. 
She  '8  a  beanty  thon  thinks  — an'  soft  is  scoors  o'  gells, 
Them  as  'a8  munny  an'  all  — wot 's  a  beanty f- the  flower  as  blawa. 
Bat  proputty,  propatty  sticks,  an'  proputty,  proputty  graws. 

V. 

Do'ant  be  stunt  ;t  taake  time:  I  knaws  what  mattkee  tha  aa  mad. 
Wam't  I  crailzed  fur  the  lasses  mys^in  when  I  wnr  a  lad  ? 
But  I  knaw'd  a  Quailker  feller  as  often  'as  towd  ma  this: 
"  Do&nt  thou  marry  for  monuy,  but  goft  wbeer  manny  is  I" 

VI. 

An'  I  went  whecr  munny  war:  an'  thy  mother  coom  to  'and, 

Wr  lots  o'  mnnny  laaid  by,  an'  a  nicetish  bit  o'  land. 

MaAybe  she  wam't  a  beauty:  —I  niver  giv  it  a  thowt— 

Bat  wam't  she  as  good  to  cuddle  an'  kiss  aa  a  lass  aa  'ant  newt  t 

VII. 

Parson's  laas  'ant  nowt,  an'  she  weiint  'a  novrt  when  'e  'a  deid, 
Mun  be  a  guvness,  lad,  or  summut,  and  addlet  her  bre&d : 
Why  ?  fur  'e  's  nobbnt  a  curate,  an'  weiint  nivir  git  naw  Mgher ; 
An'  'e  madde  the  bed  as  'e  ligs  on  afoor  'e  coom'd  to  the  shire. 

vnL 

And  thin  'e  coom'd  to  the  parish  wi'  lots  o'  "Varsity  debt, 
Stook  to  Ids  taaTl  they  did,  an'  'e  'ant  got  shut  on  'em  yet. 
An'  'e  ligs  on  'is  back  i'  the  grip,  wi'  noiin  to  lend  'im  a  Bhove, 
Woorse  nor  a  far-welter'd{  yowe:  fur,  Sammy,  'e  married  ftir  \\ivy. 

TX. 

Law  *  what 's  law  ?  thoa  can  Ioty  thy  laas  an'  'er  munny  too, 
Maakin'  'em  gott  togither  as  they  "ve  good  right  to  da 
Conld'n  I  Inrr  thy  mnther  by  cause  o'  'er  manny  laald  by  f 
Natty  — ftar  I  larv'd  'er  a  vant  sight  moor  (tar  it:  rettaon  why. 

lOUtiaaU.  t  Ean.  jOthw-mMmi    mUot^OufljIatonlttbtHMtkthmw. 

15 


226 


THE  VICTIM. 


X. 

Ay,  an'  thy  muther  says  thou  wants  to  marry  the  lass, 
Cooms  of  a  gentleman  barn :  an'  we  botlth  on  us  thinks  tha  an  asa. 
Woa  then,  proputty,  wiltha?  — an  ass  as  near  as  mays  newt—* 
WoU  then,  wiltha?  dangtha !  —  the  bees  is  as  fell  as  owtt 

XI. 

Breslk  me  a  bit  o'  the  esh  for  his  'efid,  lad,  ont  o'  the  fence ! 
Gentleman  burn '.  what 's  gentleman  bum?  is  it  shUlius  an'  pence? 
Proputty,  proputty  's  ivrything  'ere,  an',  Sammy,  I  'm  blest 
If  it  is  n't  the  sadme  oop  yonder,  fur  them  as  'as  it  's  the  best. 

XXL 

Tia'n  them  as  'as  mnnny  as  breaks  into  'oases  an'  steiilB, 
Them  as  'as  coats  to  their  baclu  an'  taUkes  their  regular  mcSls. 
Noii,  but  it 's  them  as  niver  knaws  wheer  a  meftl  's  to  be  'ad. 
Taiike  my  word  for  it,  Sammy,  the  poor  in  a  loomp  is  bad. 

xm. 

Them  or  tbir  feythers,  tha  sees,  man  'a  be&n  a  laftzy  lot, 

Pur  work  mun  'a  gone  to  the  glttin'  whinlver  manny  wa«  got 

Feylher  'ad  ammont  nowt ;  lei'istwaays  'is  mnnny  was  'id. 

But  'e  toed  an'  moii'd  IssC-n  dead,  an  'e  died  a  good  an,  'e  did. 

XIV. 

Look  thon  theer  wheer  Wrigglesby  beck  comes  ont  by  the  'ill  1 
Feytber  mn  up  to  the  farm,  an'  I  runs  up  to  the  mill ; 
An'  I  '11  nin  up  to  the  brig,  an'  that  thou  '11  live  to  see; 
And  if  thon  marries  a  good  nn,  I  '11  leave  the  laud  to  thee. 

XV. 

Thim  'b  my  noutlono,  Sammy,  wheerby  I  means  to  stick; 
But  if  thon  marries  a  bad  nn,  I  '11  leave  the  land  to  Dick.  — 
Coom  oop,  proputty,  proputty  —  that 's  what  I  'ears  'ira  BAily— 
Proputty,  proputty,  pmpnfty— canter  an'  canter  awaiy. 


THE  VICTIM. 


A  PLAOiTB  npon  the  people  fell, 
A  (limine  after  Inid  them  low, 
Then  thorpe  and  byre  aroee  in  fire, 

For  on  them  brake  the  sndden  foe; 
So  thick  they  died  the  people  cried 

"The  Gods  are  moved  against  the  land.' 
The  Priest  in  horror  about  his  altar 
To  Thor  and  Odin  lifted  a  hand : 
"Help  us  from  famine 
And  plague  and  strife  1 
What  would  you  have  of  us  ? 
Human  life? 
Were  it  our  nearest. 
Were  it  our  dearest, 
(Answer,  O  answer) 
We  give  yon  bis  life." 


Bnt  still  the  foeman  spoil'd  and  bnm'd. 

And  cattle  died,  and  deer  in  wood. 
And  bird  in  air,  and  flshea  turn'd 

And  whiten 'd  all  the  rolling  flood ; 
And  dead  men  lay  all  over  the  way. 

Or  down  in  a  famiw  scathed  with  flame: 
And  ever  and  aye  the  Priesthood  moan'd 
Till  at  last  it  seem'd  that  an  answer  came: 
"The  King  is  happy 
In  child  and  wife; 
Take  yon  bis  dearest, 
Give  us  a  life." 


The  Prieat  went  ont  by  heath  and  hill ; 

The  King  was  hunting  in  the  wild ; 
They  found  the  mother  sitting  still; 
She  cast  her  arms  about  the  child. 
The  child  was  only  eight  sammere  old, 

His  beanty  still  with  his  years  Increased, 
Hia  face  was  ruddy,  his  hair  was  gold. 
He  aeem'd  a  victim  due  to  the  priest. 
The  priest  beheld  him. 
And  cried  with  Joy, 
"The  Gods  have  anawer'd : 
We  give  them  the  boy." 


The  King  retnm'd  fh>m  out  the  wile], 

He  bore  bat  little  game  in  hand ; 
The  mother  said:  "They  have  taken  the  child 

To  spill  his  blood  and  heal  the  land: 
The  land  is  sick,  the  people  diseased. 

And  blight  and  famine  on  all  the  len : 
The  holy  Gods,  they  must  be  appealed, 
So  I  pray  you  tell  the  truth  to  me. 
They  have  taken  onr  son, 
They  will  have  his  life. 
Is  hs  your  dearest? 
Or  I,  the  wife?" 


The  King  bent  low,  with  hand  on  brow, 
He  stay'd  his  arms  upon  his  knee: 

"O  wife,  what  use  to  answer  now? 
For  now  the  Prieat  has  judged  for  roe.'* 


*  Maka*  notbini;. 


t  The  fliw  an  **  B«ro«  u  ui}41iliii;. 


WACtl'-S.— iilh  HlliHKH  I'AMH 


■  \: 


I  (   Kl    III 


227 


The  Kinir  WM  dukfto  with  holy  fear: 

"The  Ood*,"  h«  Mid,  "  would  harv  choMU  wrll ; 
Yet  both  an  Dear,  aud  boih  are  dear, 
And  which  the  deareat  I  cannot  tell  t" 
Hut  the  Prieat  waa  happv, 
Hid  victim  won: 
**We  have  hla  daaraat, 
Hia  (miy  aon  I" 


The  ritcx  prepared,  the  ricUm  bared. 

The  kiiire  nprialng  toward  the  blow. 
To  the  nltar-atoue  ahe  epmng  alone, 

"  Me,  not  my  darling,  no !" 
He  caught  her  away  with  a  sudden  cr)". 

Suddenly  tram  him  brake  hia  wife. 
And  ahrieklng  "  /  am  hla  dearest,  I  — 
/  am  hla  deareat !"  raah'd  on  the  kuifa 
And  the  Prieat  was  happy, 
"O,  Father  Odin, 
We  give  you  a  life. 
Which  waa  hla  ueareatr 
Who  waa  hia  deareat  f 
The  Qode  have  anawer'd ; 
We  give  them  the  wife !" 


WAGES. 

Oloit  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  (<ong, 
Paid  with  a  voice  flying  by  to  be  lost  on  au  cud- 
lees  eea  — 
Glory  of  Virtue,  U.  dght,  to  struggle,  to  right  tlie 
wrong—  I 

Nay,  but  she  aim'd  not  at  glory,  no  lover  of  glory  ] 
she:  I 

(live  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still  to  be. 

The  wages  of  sin  is  death :  if  the  wages  of  Virtue 
be  dust. 
Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  for  the  life  of  the 
worm  and  the  fly? 
She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  t0  quiet  seats  of 
the  Just, 
To  rest  In  a  golden  grove,  or  to  bask  in  a  sum- 
mer sky: 
Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not  to  die. 


THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM. 

Tub  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the  hills  and 

the  plains  — 
Are  not  these,  O  Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him  who  reigns  ? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He  ?  tho'  He  be  not  that  which  He 

seems  r 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do  we  not  live 

in  dreams  r 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of  body  and 

limb. 
Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  ^hy  dlTlsIon  trom  \ 

Him  7 

Dark  Is  the  world  to  thee :  thyself  art  the  reason 

why; 
For  is  He  not  all  but  thou,  that  hast  power  to  feel  \ 

"I  am  1 1"  i 

Olory  about  thee,  without  thee:  and  thou  (talflllest 

thy  doom. 
Making  Him  broken  gleams,  and  a  stifled  splendor 

and  gloom. 


Si»Mk     l'>     lllll     llr.'ll     I' 

Hplrtl  ran  mwt  — 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and 
and  toeL 


lie    l.r^.r-,  :„u\    --i.irlt  wtth 

than  hands 


Ood  to  law,  aay  the  wise,  O  Soul,  and  tot  oa  r^oice. 
For  If  He  thunder  by  tow  the  thnnder  to  yet  HI* 
▼oice. 

Law  ia  Ood,  say  some :  no  God  at  all,  says  the  Ibol : 
For  all  we  have  power  to  see  to  a  straight  staff  bent 
In  a  pool ; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the  eye  of  man 

cannot  see; 
But  If  we  could  see  aud  bear,  thU  Vision  — were  it 

not  He  t 


Flowkr  in  the  crannied  will, 
I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies ;  — 
Hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  band. 
Little  flower— but  if  I  could  understand 
What  yon  arc,  root  and  all,  aud  all  in  all, 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


LUCRETIUS. 

Ldoilia,  wedded  to  Lucretina,  found 

Her  master  cold;  fur  when  the  morning  finsn 

Uf  passion  and  the  flrst  embrace  had  died 

Between  them,  tho'  he  loved  her  none  the  lesv. 

Yet  often  when  the  woman  beard  his  foot 

Return  trom  pacings  in  the  fleld,  and  ran 

To  greet  him  with  a  kiss,  the  master  touk 

Small  notice,  or  auKterely,  for — bis  mind 

Half  buried  in  some  weightier  argument, 

Or  fancy-borne  perhaps  upon  the  rise 

And  long  roll  of  the  Hexameter  —  he  past 

To  turn  aud  ponder  those  three  hundred  scrolls 

Left  by  the  Teacher  whom  he  held  divine. 

She  brook'd  it  not;  bat  wrathful,  petulant, 

Dreaming  some  rival,  sought  and  found  a  witch       tt 

Who  brew'd  the  philter  which  had  power,  they  said, 

To  lead  an  errant  passion  home  again. 

And  this,  at  times,  she  mingled  with  bis  drink. 

And  this  destroy'd  him ;  for  the  wicked  broth 

Confuted  the  chemic  labor  of  the  blood. 

And  tickling  the  brute  brain  within  the  man's, 

Made  havoc  among  those  tender  cells,  and  chcck'd 

His  power  to  shape:  he  loalh'd  himself;  and  once 

After  a  tempest  woke  npon  a  mom 

That  mock'd  him  with  returning  calm,  and  cried.' 

"Storm  in  the  night  1  for  thrice  I  heard  the  mm 
Rnshing ;  and  once  the  flash  of  a  thunderbolt  — 
Methought  I  never  saw  so  fierce  a  fork  — 
Struck  out  the  streaming  mountaln-eide,  and  show'd 
A  riotous  confluence  of  watercourses 
Blanching  and  billowing  in  a  hollow  of  it, 
Where  all  but  yester-cve  was  dosty-diy. 

"Storm,  and  what  dream%  ye  holy  Gods,  what 
dreams! 
For  thrice  I  waken'd  after  dreams.    Perchance 
We  do  but  recollect  the  dreams  that  come 
Just  ere  the  waking:  terrible  1  for  it  seem'd 
A  void  was  made  in  Nature ;  all  her  bonds 
Crack'd;  and  I  saw  the  flaring  atom-streams 
And  torrents  of  her  myriad  universe. 
Ruining  along  the  illimitable  inane. 
Fly  on  to  clash  together  again,  and  make 
Another  and  another  frame  of  things 


228 


LUCRETIUS. 


Forever:  that  was  mine,  my  dream,  I  knew  it 

Of  and  belonging  to  me,  as  the  dog 

With  inward  yelp  and  restless  forefoot  plies 

His  function  of  the  woodland:  but  the  next! 

I  thought  that  all  the  blood  by  Sylla  shed 

Came  driving  rainlike  down  again  on  earth, 

And  where  it  dashed  the  reddening  meadow,  sprang 

No  dragon  warriors  from  Cadmean  teeth, 

For  these  I  thought  my  dream  would  show  to  me, 

Bat  girls,  Iletairai,  curious  in  their  art. 

Hired  animalisms,  vile  as  those  that  made 

The  mulberry-faced  Dictator's  orgies  worse 

Than  aught  they  fable  of  the  quiet  Gods. 

And  hands  they  mixt,  and  yell'd  and  round  me  drove 

lu  narrowing  circles  till  I  yell'd  again 

Half  suflTocated,  and  sprang  up,  and  saw  — 

Was  It  the  first  beam  of  my  latest  day  t 

"Then,  then,  from   utter   gloom   stood   out  the 
breasts, 
The  breasts  of  Helen,  and  hoverlngly  a  sword 
Now  over  and  now  under,  now  direct. 
Pointed  Itself  to  pierce,  but  sank  down  shamed 
At  all  that  beauty;  and  as  I  stared,  a  fire, 
The  fire  that  left  a  roofless  llion. 
Shot  out  of  them,  and  scorch'd  me  that  I  woke. 

"Is  this  thy  vengeance,  holy  Venns,  thine, 
Because  I  would  not  one  of  thine  own  doves. 
Not  ev'n  a  rose,  were  offer'd  to  thee  f  thixie. 
Forgetful  how  my  rich  proiEmiou  makes 
Thy  glory  fly  along  the  Italian  field, 
In  lays  that  will  outlast  thy  Deity? 

"  Deity  t  nay,  thy  worshippers.    My  tongne 
Trips,  or  I  speak  profauely.    Which  of  these 
Angers  thee  most,  or  angers  thee  at  all  f 
Not  if  thou  be'st  of  those  who  far  aloof 
Prom  envy,  hate  and  pity,  and  spite  and  scorn. 
Live  the  great  life  which  all  our  greatest  fain 
Would  follow,  centred  in  cterual  calm. 

"Nay,  if  thon  canst,  O  Goddess,  like  ourselves 
Touch,  and  be  touched,  then  would  I  cry  to  thee 
To  kiss  thy  Mavors,  roll  thy  tender  arms 
Round  him,  and  keep  him  from  the  lust  of  blood 
.  That  makes  a  steaming  slaughter-honse  of  Rome. 

"  Ay,  but  I  meant  not  thee ;  I  meant  not  her. 
Whom  all  the  pines  of  Ida  shook  to  see 
Slide  from  that  quiet  heaven  of  hers,  and  tempt 
The  Trojan,  while  his  neat-herds  were  abroad ; 
Nor  her  that  o'er  her  wounded  hunter  wept 
Her  Deity  false  in  human-amorous  tears; 
Nor  whom  her  beardless  apple-arbiter 
Decided  fairest.    Rather,  O  ye  Qods, 
Poet-like,  as  the  great  Sicilian  called 
Calliope  to  grace  his  golden  verse  — 
Ay,  and  this  Kypris  also — did  I  take 
That  popular  name  of  thine  to  shadow  forth 
The  all-generating  powers  and  genial  heat 
Of  Nature,  when  she  strikes  through  the  thick  blocd 
Of  cattle,  and  light  is  large  and  lambs  are  glad 
Nosing  the  mother's  udder,  and  the  bird 
Makes  his  heart  voice  amid  the  blaze  of  flowers 
Which  things  appear  the  work  of  mighty  Ood^ 

"The  Gods!  and  if  I  go  my  work  is  left 
Unflnish'd  —  if  I  ga    The  Gods,  who  haunt 
The  lucid  interspace  of  world  and  world. 
Where  never  creeps  a  cloud,  or  moves  a  wind. 
Nor  ever  falls  the  least  white  star  of  snow, 
Nor  ever  lowest  roll  of  thunder  moans. 
Nor  sound  of  human  sorrow  mounts  to  mar 
Their  sacred  everlasting  calm !  and  such, 
Not  all  80  fine,  nor  so  divine  a  calm. 
Not  such,  nor  all  unlike  it,  man  may  gain 
Letting  his  own  life  go.    The  Gods,  the  Gods ! 


If  all  be  atoms,  how  then  should  the  Gods 

Being  atomic  not  be  dissoluble, 

Not  follow  the  great  law?    My  master  held 

That  Gods  there  are,  for  all  men  so  belie\e. 

I  press'd  my  footsteps  into  his,  and  meant 

Surely  to  lead  my  Memmiifc  in  a  train 

Of  flowery  clauses  onward  to  the  proof 

That  Gods  there   are,  and   deathless.     Meant  ?     I 

meant  7 
I  have  forgotten  what  I  meant:  my  mind 
Stumbles,  and  all  my  faculties  are  lamed. 

"  Look  where  another  of  our  Gods,  the  Sun, 
Apollo,  Delius,  or  of  older  use 
All-seeing  Hyperion— what  yon  will— 
Has  mounted  yonder;  since  he  never  sware. 
Except  his  wrath  were  wreak'd  on  wretched  man. 
That  he  would  only  shine  among  the  dead 
Hereafter ;  tales !  for  never  yet  on  earth  ' 
Could  dead  flesh  creep,  or  bits  of  roasting  ox 
Moan  round  the  spit  —  nor  knows  he  what  he  sees ; 
King  of  the  East  altho'  he  seem,  and  girt 
With  song  and  flame  and  fragrance,  slowly  lifcs 
His  golden  feet  on  those  empurpled  stairs 
That  climb  into  the  windy  halls  of  heaven : 
And  here  be  glances  on  an  eye  new-bom, 
And  gets  for  greeting  but  a  wail  of  pain ; 
And  here  be  stays  upon  a  freezing  orb 
That  Cain  would  gaze  upon  him  to  the  lai<t: 
And  here  upon  a  yellow  eyelid  fall'n 
And  closed  by  those  who  mourn  a  friend  in  vain. 
Not  thankful  that  his  troubles  are  no  more. 
And  me,  altho'  his  fire  is  on  my  face 
Blinding,  he  sees  not,  nor  at  all  can  tell 
Whether  I  mean  this  day  to  end  myself^ 
Or  lend  an  ear  to  Plato  where  he  says, 
That  men  like  soldiers  may  not  quit  the  pest 
Allotted  by  the  Gods:  but  he  that  holds 
The  Gods  are  careless,  wherefore  need  he  care 
Greatly  for  them,  nor  rather  plunge  at  once, 
Being  troubled,  wholly  out  of  sight,  and  sink 
Past  earthquake— ay,  and  gout  and  stone,  that  break 
Body  toward  death,  and  palsy,  death-in-life, 
And  wretched^ge  —  and  worst  disease  of  all. 
Those  prodigw  of  myriad  nakednesses, 
And  twisted  shapes  of  Inst,  unspeakable. 
Abominable,  strangers  at  my  hearth 
Not  welcome,  harpies  miring  every  dish. 
The  phantom  husks  of  something  foully  doi:e. 
And  fleeting  through  the  txjuudless  universe. 
And  blasting  the  long  quiet  of  my  breast 
With  animal  heat  and  dire  insanity. 

"How  should  the  mind, except  It  loved  them,  clasp 
These  idols  to  herself?  or  do  they  fly 
Now  thinner,  and  now  thicker,  like  the  flokcs 
In  a  fall  of  snow,  and  so  press  in,  perforce 
Of  multitude,  as  crowds  that  in  an  honr 
Of  civic  tnmult  Jam  the  doors,  and  bear 
The  keepers  down,  and  throng,  their  rags  and  they, 
The  basest,  far  into  that  cotnicil-hall 
Where  sit  the  best  and  stateliest  of  the  land  J 

"  Can  I  not  fling  this  horror  off  me  again, 
Seeing  with  how  great  ease  Nature  can  smile. 
Balmier  and  nobler  f^om  her  bath  of  storm. 
At  random  ravage?  and  how  easily 
The  mountain  there  has  cast  his  cloudy  slough. 
Now  towering  o'er  him  in  serenest  air, 
A  mountain  o'er  a  mountain,  ay,  and  within 
All  hollow  as  the  hopes  and  fears  of  men. 

"But  who  was  he,  that  in  the  garden  snared 
Picus  and  Faunus,  rustic  Gods?  a  tale 
To  laugh  at  — more  to  laugh  at  in  myself— 
For  look!  what  is  it?  there?  yon  arbutus 
Totters:  a  noiseless  riot  underneath 
Strikes  through  the  wood,  .sets  all  the  tope  quiver- 
ing — 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER 


2*29 


Th«  nounUin  qntrkfna  Into  Njinph  and  Faun ; 

And  here  an  Oread  — how  the  «uu  dell(hi« 

To  gUooe  «ud  ahirt  about  her  ullppery  aldea, 

And  rosy  kiMM  and  Kup(>lu  ruund«»dueM, 

And  budded  boaom-pcnkji  —  who  this  way  ran* 

Before  the  reet  —  A  satjrr,  a  aatyr,  Me  — 

Follow* ;  bat  him  I  prored  Impoiwlble; 

Twy-iMtared  la  no  nature;  yet  he  draw* 

Nearer  and  nearer,  and  I  acan  him  now 

BeHtlier  than  any  phantom  oi  hi*  kind 

That  erer  batted  his  rough  bruthcr-brute 

For  lust  or  luaty  blood  or  pruveudor : 

I  hate,  abhor,  spit,  sicken  at  him :  and  she 

Loathes  him  as  well;  such  a  precipiute  heel, 

Fledged  as  it  were  with  Mercury's  ankle-wing. 

Whirls  her  to  me:  but  will  she  tling  herself. 

Shameless  upon  me?    Catch  her,  goatfoot:  nay, 

Hide,  hide  them,  milliou-myrtled  wilderness. 

And  caTcru-slmdowhi);  InureU,  liide !  do  I  wish  — 

What?  — that  the  bush  were  leafless f  or  to  whelm 

All  of  them  in  one  massacre  f    O  ye.Oods, 

I  know  you  careless,  yet,  behold,  to  yon 

From  childly  wont  and  ancient  use  I  call  — 

I  thought  I  lived  securely  as  yonrselves- 

Ko  lewdness,  narrowing  envy,  monkey-spite. 

No  madness  of  ambition,  avarice,  none : 

No  larger  feast  that  under  plane  or  pine 

With  neighbors  laid  along  the  gra«8,  to  take 

Only  such  cups  as  left  ub  friendly  warm, 

Affirming  each  his  own  philosophy  — 

Nothing  to  mar  the  sober  miO^sties 

Of  settled,  sweet.  Epicurean  life. 

But  now  it  seems  some  unseen  monster  lays 

Ills  vast  and  flltby  band«  upon  my  will. 

Wrenching  it  backward  into  his;  and  spoils 

My  bliss  in  being ;  and  it  was  not  great ; 

For  save  when  shutting  reasons  up  in  rhythm, 

Or  Heliconian  honey  in  living  words, 

To  make  a  truth  less  harsh,  I  often  grew 

Tired  of  so  much  within  our  little  life, 

Or  of  so  little  in  our  little  life  — 

Poor  little  life  that  toddles  half  an  hour 

Crown 'd  with  a  flower  or  two,  and  there  an  end  — 

And  since  the  nobler  pleasure  seems  to  fade. 

Why  should  I,  beastlike  as  I  find  myself; 

Not  manlike  end  myselff — our  privilege  — 

What  beast  has  heart  to  do  it?    And  what  man. 

What  Roman  would  be  dragged  in  triumph  thus  ? 

Not  I :  not  he,  who  bears  one  name  with  her. 

Whose  death-blow  struck  the  dateless  doom  of  king". 

When  brooking  not  the  Tarqnln  in  her  veins. 

She  made  her  blood  in  sight  of  Collatine 

And  all  his  peers,  flushing  the  guiltless  air. 

Spout  from  the  maiden  fountain  in  her  heart 

And  tiom  it  sprang  the  Commonwealth,  which  breaks 

As  I  am  breaking  now ! 

"And  therefore  now 
Let  her,  that  is  the  womb  and  tomb  of  all, 
Great  Nature,  take,  and  lorcing  far  apart 
Those  blind  beginnings  that  have  made  me  mnn, 
Dash  them  anew  together  at  her  will 
Through  all  her  cycles  —  into  man  once  more 
Or  beast  or  bird  or  fish,  or  opulent  flower — 
But  till  this  cosmic  order  everywhere 
Shatter'd  into  one  earthquake  in  one  day 
Cracks  all  to  pieces,  —  and  that  hour  perhaps 
Is  not  so  far  when  momentary  man 
Shall  seem  no  more  a  something  to  himseli; 
But  he,  his  hopes  and  hates,  his  homes  and  fones, 
.\nd  even  his  bones  long  laid  within  the  grave. 
The  very  sides  of  the  grave  itself  shall  pass. 
Vanishing,  atom  and  void,  atom  and  void. 
Into  the  unseen  forever,  — till  that  hour. 
My  golden  work  in  which  I  told  a  truth 
That  stays  the  rolling  Ixionian  wheel. 
And  numbs  the  Fury's  ringlet-snake,  and  plucks 
The  mortal  soul  fh>m  out  immortal  hell. 


Shall  stand :  ay,  surely :  then  it  (Wiis  at  last, 

And  jxTishes  ait  I  mum:  for  O  Thou, 

Passionless  bride,  divine  Tranquillity, 

Yearned  after  by  the  wisest  of  the  wIm, 

Who  QUI  to  find  thee,  being  as  thou  art 

Without  one  pleasure  and  without  one  pain, 

IIowlM>it  I  know  thoa  surely  must  be  ndne 

Of  soon  or  late,  yet  ont  of  season,  thna 

1  woo  thee  roughly,  for  thou  carest  not 

How  roughly  men  may  woo  thee  so  they  win  — 

I'hus— thus:  the  tool  fliee  out  and  dies  In  the  air." 

With  that  he  drove  the  knife  into  his  side: 
She  heard  him  raging,  heard  him  fall :  ran  in. 
Beat  breast,  tore  hair,  cried  ont  upon  bcrsell 
As  having  flilled  in  duty  to  him,  shrick'd 
That  she  but  meant  to  win  him  back,  fell  on  him, 
Clasp'd,  kisi/d  him,  wall'd:  he  answer'd,  "Care  not 

thou 
What  matters f    All  is  over:  Fare  thee  wellt" 


TIIE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 

[Thit  poMB  U  foaaiM  apoa  k  tinry  la  Poooiitto. 

A  yoanc  lorar,  JalUa,  wbow  imytln  aDd  IbiUr^Mar,  CunllU,  hat 
bMn  WMM«d  to  hi*  fttaad  and  rlrai,  UomI,  •odaaTOn  la  aamU*  tha 
•lory  of  hU  own  lor*  for  bcr,  and  tba  atraac*  aaqoal  of  It  Ha  a|iaaka . 
of  having  baaa  haantad  In  dallriam  bj  rMona  and  tha  aoond  of  balla, 
•ometlmaa  tailing  for  a  funaral,  and  at  laat  ringing  for  a  auurtag* ,  bat 
ba  braaka  away,  OTarcoma,  aa  ba  approaehaa  tha  Erant,  aad  a  witaaM 
to  it  oooplataa  tha  lala.] 

•  a  a  a  • 

Ha  flics  the  event:  he  leaves  the  event  to  me: 
Poor  Julian  —  how  be  rush'd  away ;  the  bells, 
Those  marriage-bells,  echoing  in  ear  and  heart- 
But  cast  a  parting  glance  at  me,  you  saw. 
As  who  should  say  "continue."    Well,  he  had 
One  golden  hour  — of  triumph  shall  I  say? 
Solace  at  least— before  he  left  his  homa 

Would  you  had  seen  him  in  that  hour  ot  hit ! 
He  moved  thro'  all  of  it  nuOestically — 
Rcstraiu'd  himself  quite  to  the  close— bat  now—  . 

Whether  they  were  his  lady's  marriage-bella. 
Or  prophets  of  them  in  his  fantasy, 
I  never  ask'd:  but  Lionel  and  the  girl 
Were  wedded,  and  our  Julian  came  again 
Back  to  his  mother's  house  among  the  pines. 
But  there,  their  gloom,  the  Mountains  and  the  Bay, 
The  whole  land  weigh  d  him  down  as  .£tna  does 
The  Giant  of  Mythology :  he  would  go, 
Wonld  leave  the  land  forever,  and  had  gone 
Surely,  but  for  a  whisper  "GJo  not  yet," 
Some  warning,  and  divinely  as  it  seem'd 
By  that  which  follow'd  —  but  of  this  I  deem 
As  of  the  visions  that  he  told  — the  event 
i  Glanced  back  upon  them  in  bis  after  life. 
And  partly  made  them  —  tho'  he  knew  it  not. 

And  thus  he  stay'd  and  would  not  look  at  her — 
I  No,  not  for  months :  but,  when  the  eleventh  moon 
]  After  their  marriage  lit  the  lover's  Bay, 
Heard  yet  once  more  the  tolling  bell,  and  said. 
Would  you  could  toll  me  ont  of  life,  but  found  — 
All  softly  as  his  mother  broke  it  to  him  — 
A  crueller  reason  than  a  crazy  ear. 
For  that  low  knell  tolling  his  lady  dead  — 
Dead  — and  had  lain  three  days  without  a  pulse: 
All  that  look'd  on  her  had  pronounced  her  dead. 
And  so  they  bore  her  (for  In  Julian's  laud 
They  never  nail  a  dumb  head  up  in  elm), 
Bore  her  tree-tuei  to  the  tr<x  airs  of  beaTeo, 
And  laid  her  tn  the  vault  of  her  own  Idn. 

What  did  he  then  t  not  die :  he  is  here  and  iiale  — 
Not  pluBge  headforemost  from  the  mountain  there. 


230 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


And  leave  the  name  of  Lover's  Leap:  not  he: 
He  knew  the  meaning  of  the  whisper  now, 
Thought  that  he  knew  it.    "This,  I  stay'd  for  this: 

0  love,  I  have  not  seen  you  for  so  long. 
Now,  now,  will  I  go  down  into  the  grave, 

1  will  be  all  alone  with  all  I  love, 

And  kiss  her  on  the  lips.    She  is  his  no  more: 
The  dead  returns  to  me,  and  I  go  down 
To  kiss  the  dead." 

The  fancy  stirr'd  him  so 
He  rose  and  went,  and  entering  the  dim  vault, 
And,  making  there  a  sudden  light,  beheld 
All  round  about  him  that  which  all  will  be. 
The  light  was  but  a  flash,  and  went  again. 
Then  at  the  far  end  of  the  vault  he  saw 
His  lady  with  the  moonlight  on  her  tixe; 
Her  breast  as  in  a  shadow-prison,  bars 
Of  black  and  bauds  of  silver,  which  the  moon 
Struck  from  an  open  grating  overhead 
High  in  the  wall,  and  all  the  rest  of  her 
Drowu'd  in  the  gloom  and  horror  of  the  vault. 

"  It  wu  my  wish,"  he  said,  "  to  pass,  to  sleep, 
To  reel,  to  be  with  her  —  till  the  great  day 
Peal'd  on  us  with  that  music  which  rights  all, 
And  raised  us  hand  In  hand."    And  kneeling  there 
Down  in  the  dreadful  dust  that  once  was  man, 
'Dust,  as  be  said,  that  once  was  loving  hearts. 
Hearts  that  bad  beat  with  sucb  a  love  as  mine  — 
Not  such  as  mine,  no,  nor  for  such  as  her— 
He  softly  put  his  arm  about  her  neck 
And  kiss'd  her  mon^  than  once,  till  helpless  death 
And  silence  made  him  bold  —  nay,  but  I  wrong  him. 
He  reverenced  his  dear  lady  -even  In  death; 
But,  placing  his  true  hand  upon  her  heart, 
"O,  you  warm  heart,"  he  moaned,  "not  even  death 
Can  chill  you  all  at  once :"  then  starting,  thought 
His  dreams  had  come  again.    "Do  I  wake  or  sleep? 
Or  am  I  made  immortal,  or  my  love 
Mortal  once  more?"    It  beat  — the  heart— it  beat: 
Faint— but  it  beat:  at  which  his  own  began 
To  pulse  with  such  a  vehemence  that  it  drown'd 
The  feebler  motion  underneath  bis  band. 
But  when  at  last  his  doubu  were  satisded. 
He  raised  her  softly  from  the  sepulchre. 
And,  wrapping  her  all  o\lBr  with  the  cloak 
He  came  In,  and  now  striding  fast,  and  now 
Sitting  awhile  to  rest,  but  evermore 
Holding  his  golden  burden  In  his  arms. 
So  bore  her  thro'  the  solitary  land 
Back  to  the  mother's  house  where  she  was  bom. 

There  the  good  mother's  kindly  ministering. 
With  half  a  night's  appliances,  recall'd 
Her  fluttering  life :  she  raised  an  eye  that  ask'd 
"Where?"  till  the  things  familiar  to  her  youth 
Had  made  a  silent  answer:  then  she  spoke, 
"Here I  and  how  came  I  here?"  and  learning  it 
(They  told  her  somewhat  rashly  as  I  think). 
At  once  begau  to  wander  and  to  wail, 
"  Ay,  but  you  know  that  you  must  give  me  back : 
Send !  bid  hini  come ;"  but  Lionel  was  away. 
Stung  by  his  loss  had  vanish 'd,  none  knew  where. 
"He  casts  me  out,"  she  wept,  "and  goes"  — a  wail 
That  seeming  something,  yet  was  nothing,  bom 
Not  from  believing  mind,  but  shatter'd  nerve. 
Yet  haunting  Julian,  as  her  own  reproof 
At  some  precipitance  in  her  burial. 
Then,  when  her  own  true  spirit  had  retura'd, 
"O  yes,  and  yon,"  she  said,  "and  none  but  you. 
For  you  have  given  me  life  and  love  again. 
And  none  but  you  yourself  shall  tell  him  of  it, 
And  you  shall  give  me  back  when  he  returns." 
"Stay  then  a  little,"  answer'd  Julian,  "here, 
And  keep  yourself,  none  knowing,  to  yourself. 
And  I  will  do  your  will.    I  may  not  stay. 
No,  not  an  hour ;  but  send  me  notice  of  him 


When  he  returns,  and  then  will  I  return, 
And  I  will  make  a  solemn  oflering  of  you 
To'  him  you  love."    And  faintly  she  replied, 
"And  I  will  do  your  will,  and  none  sbJall  kuow." 

Not  know?  with  such  a  secret  to  be  known. 
But  all  their  house  was  old  and  loved  them  both, 
And  all  the  house  had  known  the  loves  of  both ; 
Had  died  almost  to  een'e  them  any  way, 
.\nd  all  the  land  was  waste  and  solitary; 
And  then  he  rode  away ;  but  after  this. 
An  hour  or  two,  Camilla's  travail  came 
Upon  her,  and  that  day  a  boy  was  born, 
Heir  of  his  &ce  and  land,  to  Lionel. 

And  thus  our  lonely  lover  rode  away, 
And  pausing  at  a  hostel  in  a  mar^h, 
There  fever  seized  upon  him :  myself  was  then 
Travelling  that  land,  and  meant  to  rest  an  hour: 
And  sitting  down  to  such  a  base  repast, 
It  makes  me  angry  yet  to  speak  of  it  — 
I  beard  a  groaning  overhead,  and  climb'd 
The  monlder'd  stairs  (for  everything  was  vile). 
And  In  a  loft,  with  none  to  wait  on  him. 
Found,  as  it  seem'd,  a  skeleton  alone. 
Raving  of  dead  men's  dost  and  beating  hearts. 

A  dismal  hostel  in  a  dismal  land, 
A  flat  malarian  world  of  reed  and  rush ! 
But  there  from  fever  and  my  care  of  him 
Sprang  up  a  friendship  that  may  help  us  yet. 
For  while  we  roam'd  along  the  dreary  coast. 
And  waited  for  her  message,  piece  by  piece 
I  learnt  the  drearier  story  of  his  life ; 
.\nd,  tho'  he  loved  and  honor'd  Lionel, 
Found  that  the  sudden  wail  his  lady  made 
Dwelt  in  bis  fancy :  did  he  know  her  worth. 
Her  beauty  even?  should  he  not  be  taught, 
Bv'n  by  the  price  that  others  set  upon  it, 
The  value  of  that  Jewel  be  bad  to  guard  ? 

Suddenly  came  her  notice  and  we  past, 
I  with  our  lover  to  bis  native  Bay. 

This  love  is  of  the  brain,  the  mind,  the  soul : 
That  makes  the  sequel  pure ;  tho'  some  of  us 
Beginning  at  the  sequel  know  no  more. 
Not  such  am  I :  and  yet  I  say,  the  bird 
That  will  not  hear  my  call,  however  sweet. 
But  if  my  neighbor  whistle  answers  him  — 
What  matter?  there  are  others  in  the  wood. 
Yet  when  I  saw  her  (and  I  thought  him  crazed, 
Tho'  not  with  such  a  craziness  as  needs 
A  cell  and  keeper),  those  dark  eyes  of  hers— 
Oh  1  such  dark  eyes !  and  not  her  eyes  alone. 
But  all  from  these  two  where  she  touch'd  on  enrtit. 
For  such  a  craziness  as  Julian's  seem'd 
No  less  than  one  divine  apology. 

So  sweetly  and  so  modestly  she  came 
To  greet  us,  her  young  hero  in  her  arms  I 
"Kiss  him,"  she  said.    "You  gave  me  life  again. 
He,  but  for  you,  had  never  seen  it  once. 
His  other  father  you !    Kiss  him,  and  then 
Forgive  him,  if  his  name  be  Julian  too." 

"Talk  of  lost  hopes  and  broken  heart !  his  o«-n 
Sent  such  a  flame  into  his  Ikce,  I  knew 
Some  sndden  vivid  pleasure  hit  him  there. 

But  he  was  all  the  more  resolved  to  go. 
And  sent  at  once  to  Lionel,  praying  him 
By  that  great  love  they  both  had  borne  the  dead, 
To  come  and  revel  for  one  hour  with  him 
Before  he  left  the  land  forevermore; 
And  then  to   friends  — they  were  not  many  — wh-j 
1  lived 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER 


2i)l 


Scatteringly  about  that  lonely  land  uf  hlii. 
And  bade  them  to  a  banquet  uf  tkrewolla. 

And  Julian  made  a  aolcmn  feaat :  I  never 
Sat  at  a  cuatlior ;  fur  all  round  hia  hall 
Prom  oulamn  on  to  column,  aa  in  a  wood, 
Not  atich  aa  here  —  an  eqnatorial  one. 
Great  garlanda  awung  and  bloesom'd ;  and  beueuth, 
HeirloomB,  and  ancient  miraclea  of  Art, 
Chalice  and  aalver,  winea  that.  Heaven  know*  when, 
Had  anck'd  the  Are  of  aome  forgotten  aan, 
And  kept  it  thru'  a  hundred  years  ot  gloom. 
Yet  glowing  in  a  heart  of  mby— cape 
NVhera  nymph  and  god  ran  ever  round  in  gold  — 
Others  of  glaaa  aa  coetly  —  aome  with  genu 
Movable  and  resettable  at  will. 
And  trebling  all  the  rest  in  value— Ah  heavena ! 
Why  need  I  tell  yon  allf— anfflce  to  B«y 
That  whatsoever  such  a  house  as  his, 
And  his  was  old,  has  in  It  rare  or  fkir 
Waa  brought  before  the  guest :  and  they,  the  guests, 
Wonder'd  at  sonic  Btniugc  light  in  Julian's  eyes 
(I  told  you  that  ho  had  hin  coldeu  hour), 
And  such  a  fenst,  ill-suited  aa  it  Hucm'd 
To  sdch  a  time,  to  Liouvl'a  loiw  aud  his. 
And  that  resolved  seir-cxilc  trom  a  land 
He  never  would  reviiiit,  t>uch  a  feast 
8u  rich,  so  strange,  aud  strauger  ev'n  than  rich, 
But  rich  as  for  the  nuptials  of  a  king. 

And  stranger  yet,  at  one  end  of  the  hall 
Two  great  funereal  curtains,  loopiuK  down. 
Farted  a  little  ere  they  met  the  floor, 
About  a  picture  of  his  lady,  taken 
Some  years  before,  and  falling  hid  the  frame. 
And  just  above  the  parting  was  a  lamp: 
8j  Uie  sweet  figure  folded  round  with  night 
Soem'd  stepping  out  of  darkness  with  a  smile. 

Well  then — our  solemn  feast — we  ate  and  drauk, 
And  might  —  the  wines  being  of  such  nobleness  — 
Have  jested  also,  but  for  Julian's  eyes, 
And  something  weird  and  wild  about  it  all: 
What  was  it?  for  our  lover  seldom  spoke. 
Scarce  touch 'd  the  meats,  but  ever  and  anon 
A  priceless  goblet  with  a  priceless  wine 
Arising,  show'd  he  drank  beyond  his  use ; 
And  when  the  feast  waa  near  an  end,  he  said: 

-=  There  is  a  cnstom  in  the  Orient,  friends  — 
I  read  of  it  in  Persia  —  when  a  man 
Will  honor  those  who  feast  with  him,  be  brings 
And  shows  them  whatsoever  he  accounts 
Of  all  his  treasures  the  most  beautiful. 
Gold,  jewels,  arms,  whatever  it  may  be. 
This  cnstom-" 

Pausing  here  a  moment,  all 
The  guests  broke  in  upon  him  with  meeting  bands 
And  cries  about  the  banquet  —  "  Beautiful ! 
Who  could  desire  more  beauty  at  a  feast?" 

The  lover  answer'd, "  There  is  more  than  one 
Here  sitting  who  desires  it    Laud  me  not 
Before  my  time,  but  hear  me  to  tbe  close. 
This  cnstom  steps  yet  further  when  the  guest 
Is  loved  and  honor'd  to  the  uttermost. 
For  after  he  has  showm  him  gems  or  gold. 
He  brings  and  sets  before  him  in  rich  guise 
That  which  is  thrice  as  beautiful  as  tbeee. 
The  beauty  that  is  dearest  to  his  heart— 
*  O  my  heart's  lord,  would  I  conid  show  yun,'  be  Bays, 
'Ev'n  my  heart  too.'    And  I  propose  to-night 
To  show  yon  what  is  dearest  to  my  heart. 
And  my  heart  toa 

"Bnt  solve  me  first  a  danbt.' 
I  knew  a  man,  nor  many  years  ago ; 


He  had  a  liitthnil  aervant,  OM  who  loved 

Hia  master  more  than  all  on  Mrth  beside. 

He  (klllug  sick,  aud  seeming  cloaa  on  deatli, 

His  master  would  not  wait  until  he  died, 

Itnt  bade  his  menials  bear  him  nrom  the  door, 

And  leave  him  In  the  public  way  to  die. 

I  knew  another,  not  so  long  ago. 

Who  found  the  dying  scr%-ant,  took  him  hooM, 

And  fod,  and  cherish'd  him,  aud  saved  hia  llfo. 

I  ask  yon  now,  ahould  this  first  master  claim 

His  service,  whom  does  it  belong  to?  him 

Who  thmst  him  out,  or  him  who  saved  hia  life?" 

Tbia  question,  so  flung  down  before  the  gneata, 
.Vnd  balanced  either  way  by  each,  at  length 
When  some  were  doubtful  how  the  law  would  hold, 
Was  handed  over  by  consent  of  all 
To  one  who  bad  not  spokeu,  Lionel 

Fair  speech  was  his,  and  delicate  of  phrase. 
And  be  beginning  languidly  — his  loss 
Weigh 'd  on  him  yet  — but  warming  as  he  went. 
Glanced  at  the  point  of  law,  to  pass  It  by,  . 
Affirming  that  as  long  as  either  lived, 
By  all  the  laws  of  love  and  gratefulness. 
The  service  of  the  one  so  saved  was  due 
.\ll  to  the  saver  — adding,  with  a  smile. 
The  first  for  many  weeks  — a  semi-smile 
iVs  at  a  strong  conclusion  —  "Body  and  soul. 
And  life  aud  limbs,  all  his  to  work  bis  will." 

Then  Julian  made  a  secret  sign  to  me 
To  bring  Camilla  down  before  them  all. 
And  crossing  her  own  picture  as  she  came, 
And  looking  as  much  lovelier  as  herself 
Is  lovelier  than  all  others  —  on  her  head 
A  diamond  circlet,  aud  from  under  this 
A  veil,  that  seem'd  no  more  than  gilded  air, 
Flying  by  each  fine  ear,  an  Eastern  gauze 
With  seeds  of  gold  —  so,  with  that  grace  of  hers, 
Slow-moving  as  a  wave  against  the  wind, 
Tliat  flings  a  mist  behind  it  in  the  sun  — 
And  bearing  high  in  arms  the  mighty  babe. 
The  younger  Julian,  who  himself  was  crown'd 
With  roses,  none  so  rosy  as  himself— 
And  over  all  her  babe  and  her  the  jewels 
Of  many  generations  of  his  house 
Sparkled  and  flashed,  for  he  had  decked  them  out 
As  for  a  solemn  sacrifice  of  love  — 
So  she  came  in :  —  I  am  long  in  telling  it 
I  never  yet  beheld  a  thing  so  strange. 
Sad,  sweet  and  strange  together  — floated  in,  — 
While  all  the  guests  in  mute  amazement  rose. 
And  slowly  pacing  to  the  middle  hall. 
Before  the  board,  there  paused  and  stood,  her  breaxt 
Elard-heaving,  and  her  eyes  upon  her  feet, 
Xot  daring  yet  to  glance  at  LioneL 
But  him  she  carried,  him  nor  lights  nor  feast 
Dazed  or  amazed,  nor  eyes  of  men ;  who  cared 
Only  to  use  hia  own,  and  staring  wide 
And  hungering  for  the  gilt  and  jewell'd  world 
About  him,  look'd,  as  be  is  like  to  prove, 
When  Julian  goes,  the  lord  of  all  he  saw. 

"My  guests,''  said  Julian:  "yon  are  honor'd  now 
Ev'n  to  the  uttermost:  in  her  behold 
Of  all  my  treasures  the  most  beantifbl, 
Of  all  things  upon  earth  the  dearest  to  me." 
Then  waving  us  a  sign  to  seat  ourselves. 
Led  his  dear  lady  to  a  chair  of  state. 
And  I,  by  Lionel  sitting,  saw  his  face 
Fire,  and  dead  ashes  and  all  fire  again 
Thrice  in  a  second,  felt  him  tremble  too. 
And  heard  him  muttering,  "So  like,  so  like; 
She  never  had  a  sister.    I  knew  none. 
Some  cousin  of  his  and  hers  — O  God,  so  like !" 
And  then  he  suddenly  asked  her  if  she  were. 
She  shuolL,  and  cast  her  eyes  down,  and  was  dtmib. 


232 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


And  then  gome  other  question'd  if  she  came 

From  foreign  lands,  and  etill  she  did  not  speak. 

Another,  if  the  boy  were  here :  but  she 

To  all  their  queries  answer'd  not  a  word, 

Which  made  the  amazement  more,  till  one  of  them 

Said,  shuddering,  "  Her  spectre !"    But  his  friend 

Replied,  in  half  a  whisper,  "  Not  at  least 

The  spectre  that  will  speak  if  spoken  to. 

Terrible  pity,  if  one  so  beautiful 

Prove,  as  I  almost  dread  to  flud  her,  dumb  I" 

But  Julian,  sitting  by  her,  answer'd  all : 
"  She  is  but  dumb,  because  in  her  you  see 
That  faithful  servant  whom  we  spoke  about, 
Obedient  to  her  second  master  now; 
Which  will  not  last     I  have  her  here  to-night  a 

guest 
So  bound  to  me  by  common  love  and  lose  — 
Wbat!  shall  I  bind  him  more?  in  his  behalf. 
Shall  I  exceed  the  Persian,  giving  him 
That  which  of  all  things  is  the  dearest  to  me. 
Not  only  showing  ?  and  he  himself  pronounced 
That  mj  rich  gift  is  wholly  mine  to  give. 

"Now  all  be  dumb,  and  promise  all  of  yon 
Not  to  break  in  on  what  I  say  by  word 
Or  whisper,  while  I  show  you  all  my  heart," 
And  then  began  the  story  of  his  love 
Am  here  to-day,  but  not  so  wordily  — 
The  passionate  moment  would  not  suffer  that  — 
Past  thro'  his  visions  to  the  burial :  thence 
Down  to  this  last  strange  hour  in  his  own  ball ; 


And  then  rose  up,  and  with  him  all  his  guests 
Once  more  as  by  enchantment ;  all  but  he, 
Lionel,  who  fain  had  rleen,  but  fell  again, 
And  sat  as  if  in  chains  —  to  whom  be  said : 

"Take  my  free  gift,  my  cousin,  for  your  wife; 
And  were  it  only  for  the  giver's  sake. 
And  tho'  she  seem  so  like  the  one  you  lost, 
Yet  cast  her  not  away  so  suddenly, 
Lest  there  be  none  left  here  to  bring  her  back: 
I  leave  this  land  forever."    Here  he  ceased. 

Then  taking  his  dear  lady  by  one  hand. 
And  bearing  on  one  arm  the  noble  babe. 
He  slowly  brought  them  both  to  Lionel. 
And  there  the  widower  husband  and  dead  wife 
Rushed  each  at  each  with  a  cry,  that  rather  seem'd 
For  some  new  death  than  for  a  life  renew'd; 
At  this  the  very  babe  began  to  wail; 
At  once  they  turned,  and  caught  and  brought  him  in 
To  their  charmed  circle,  and,  half  killing  him 
With  kiaaes,  round  him  closed  and  clai<pt  again. 
But  Lionel,  when  at  last  he  ft-eed  himself 
From  wife  and  child,  and  lifted  up  a  face 
All  over  glowing  with  the  sun  of  life, 
And  love,  and  buondleM  thanks  — the  sight  of  this 
So  Mghted  our  good  friend,  that  turning  to  me 
And  saying,  "It  ia  over:  let  ne  go"  — 
There  were  oar  horaes  ready  at  the  doors  — 
We  bade  them  no  farewell,  but  mounting  tbeee 
He  past  forever  from  his  native  laud; 
And  I  with  bim,  my  Julian,  back  to  mine. 


FAKINGFORD — The  Rksidbncr  or  Alfkko  Ten.nysu.n. 


TIMBUCTOO. 


'joa 


ADDITIONAL     POEMS. 


PRINTED   EXCLUSIVELY   IN  THIS   EDITION. 


TIMBUCTOO." 

"  Da*|>  In  thai  lton-h«nal«<l  InUnd  lU* 
A  BijnUr  Hly,  K«al  of  hl(b  MaprlM."— CnAm*>. 

I  STOOD  DpoQ  tbe  Mountain  which  o'crlooka 

The  narrow  aeaa,  whoM  rapid  interval 

Parts  AMc  from  green  Europe,  when  the  San 

Had  ftiU'n  below  th'  Atlantic,  and  nlM)ve 

The  silent  heavens  were  blench'd  with  fkery  Ujiht, 

Uncertain  whether  facr)*  light  or  cloud, 

Flowing  Southward,  and  the  chasms  of  deep,  deep 

blue 
Slumber'd  uulHthomable,  and  tbe  stars 
Were  flooded  over  with  clear  glory  and  pale. 
I  gazed  upon  the  sheeny  coast  beyond, 
There  where  tbe  Qiant  of  old  Time  inflx'd 
Tbe  limits  of  his  prowess,  pillars  high 
Long  time  erased  from  earth :  even  as  the  Sea 
When  weary  of  wild  inroad  buildcth  up 
Huge  monnds  whereby  to  stay  his  yeasty  waves. 
And  much  I  moscd  on  legends  qnaint  and  old 
Which  whilome  won  the  hearts  of  all  on  earth 
Toward  their  brightness,  ev'n  as  flame  draws  air; 
But  had  their  being  in  tbe  heart  of  man 
As  air  is  th'  life  of  flame :  and  thou  wert  then 
A  center'd  glory-circJed  memory, 
Divinest  Atolantis,  whom  the  wares 
Have  buried  deep,  and  thou  of  later  name, 
Imperial  Eldorado,  roof'd  with  gold: 
Shadows  to  which,  despite  all  shocks  of  change, 
All  on-set  of  capricious  accident. 
Men  clung  with  yearning  hope  which  would  not  die. 
As  when  in  some  great  city  where  the  walls 
Shake,  and  tbe  streets  with  ghastly  faces  thronged; 
Do  utter  forth  a  subterranean  voice. 
Among  the  inner  columns  far  retired  . 
At  midnight,  in  the  lone  Acropolis, 
Before  the  awful  genius  of  the  place 
Kneels  the  pale  Priestess  in  deep  faith,  the  while 
Atwve  her  head  the  weak  lamp  dips  and  winlcs 
Unto  the  fearful  summoning  without: 
Natbless  she  ever  clasps  the  marble  knees. 
Bathes  the  cold  hand  with  tears,  and  gazeth  on 
Those  eyes  which  wear  no  light  but  that  wherewith 
Her  phantasy  informs  them. 

Where  are  ye. 
Thrones  of  the  Western  wave,  fair  Islands  green? 
V^Hiere  are  your  moonlight  halls,  your  cedam  glocms, 
The  blossoming  abysses  of  your  hills  t 
Your  flowering  capes,  and  your  gold-sanded  bays 
Blown  round  with  happy  airs  of  odorous  winds  t 
Wbere  are  the  iuflnite  ways,  which,  seraph-trod, 
Woand  through  your  great  Elysian  solitudes. 
Whose  lowest  deeps  were,  as  with  visible  love. 
Filled  with  Di%1ne  efl^lf^ence,  circumftised. 
Flowing  between  the  clear  and  polished  stems, 
And  ever  circling  round  their  emerald  cones 
In  coronals  and  glories,  such  as  gird 
Tbe  unfading  foreheads  of  the  Saints  in  Heaven? 
For  nothing  visible,  they  say,  had  birth 
In  that  blest  ground,  but  it  was  played  about 
With  its  peculiar  glory.    Then  I  raised 
My  voice  and  cried,  "  Wide  Afric,  doth  thy  Son 
Lighten,  thy  hills  enfold  a  city  as  fair 

*  A  FiMn  whkh  obUiiwd  Uw  Cluuwtlkir't  Medal  at  Um  Cambridip 
CommMcaOMal,  MDCCCXJUX.    By  A.  Tu«tk>*,  of  Trinity  C«l- 


As  those  which  starred  the  night  o'  tbe  elder  worM  ? 

Or  is  the  rumor  of  thy  TImbnctoo 

A  dream  as  frail  as  those  of  ancient  time  ?" 

A  cur\-a  of  whitening,  flashing,  ebbing  light ! 
A  nulling  of  white  wings !  the  bri;;ht  descent 
Of  a  yoang  Seraph !  iind  he  stood  iR-side  mv 
There  on  tbe  ridge,  and  looked  into  my  bice 
With  his  unutterable,  shining  orbs. 
So  that  with  hasty  motion  I  did  veil 
My  vision  with  both  bands,  and  saw  before  me 
Such  colored  spots  as  dance  athwart  the  eyen 
Of  those  that  gaze  upon  the  noonday  Sun. 
Oirt  with  a  cone  of  flashing  gold  beneath 
His  breast,  and  compaHscd  round  about  bis  br^w 
With  triple  arch  of  cverchanging  bows. 
And  circled  with  the  glory  of  living  light 
And  alternation  of  ail  hues,  he  stood. 

"O  child  of  man,  why  muse  you  here  alone 
Upon  the  Mountain,  on  the  dreams  of  old 
Which  fllied  the  earth  with  passing  loveliness, 
Which  flung  strange  music  on  tbe  bowling  winds, 
And  odors  rapt  from  remote  Paradise? 
Thy  sense  is  clogged  with  dull  mortality: 
Open  thine  eyes  and  sec." 

I  looked,  but  not 
Upon  his  face,  for  it  was  wonderful  * 

With  its  exceeding  brightness,  and  the  light 
Of  the  great  Angel  Mind  which  looked  from  out 
The  starry  glowing  of  his  restless  eyes. 
I  felt  my  soul  grow  mighty,  and  my  spirit 
With  supernatural  excitation  bound 
Within  me,  and  my  mental  eye  grew  large 
With  such  a  vast  circumference  of  thought. 
That  in  my  vanity  I  seemed  to  stand 
Upon  the  outward  verge  and  bound  alone 
Of  full  beatitude.    Each  failing  sense. 
As  with  a  momentary  flash  of  light, 
Grew  thrillingly  distinct  and  keen.    I  saw 
The  smallest  grain  that  dappled  the  dark  earth. 
The  indistinctest  atom  in  deep  air. 
The  Moon's  white  cities,  and  the  opal  widlli 
Of  her  small  glowing  lakes,  her  silver  heighu 
Unvisited  with  dew  of  vagrant  cloud. 
And  the  unsounded,  undescended  depth 
Of  her  black  hollows.    The  clear  galaxy 
Shorn  of  its  boory  lustre,  wonderful. 
Distinct  and  vivid  with  sharp  points  of  light. 
Blaze  within  blaze,  an  unimagined  depth 
And  harmony  of  planet-girded  suns 
And  moon-encircled  planets,  wheel  in  wheel. 
Arched  the  wan  sapphire.    Nay  — the  hum  cf  men. 
Or  other  things  talking  iq  unknown  tongues, 
And  notes  of  busy  lite  in  distant  worlds 
Beat  like  a  fkr  wave  on  my  anxious  ear. 

A  maze  of  piercing,  trackless,  thrilling  thoughts. 
Involving  and  embracing  each  with  each. 
Rapid  as  Are,  inextricably  linked. 
Expanding  momently  with  every  sight 
And  sound  which  struck  the  palpitating  sense. 
The  issue  of  strong  impulse,  hurried  through 
The  riven  rapt  brain ;  as  when  in  some  lar/e  lake 
From  pressure  of  descendant  crags,  which  lapte 
Disjointed,  crumbling  from  their  paramt  slope 
At  slender  interval,  the  level  calm 
Is  ridged  with  restless  and  increasing  spheres 
Which  break  npon  each  other,  each  th'  effect 
Of  separate  impulse,  but  more  fleet  and  strong 


234 


TIMBUCTOO. 


Than  its  precursor,  till  the  eye  in  vain 
Amid  the  wild  unrest  of  swimming  shade 
Dappled  with  hollow  and  alternate  rise 
Of  interpenetrated  arc,  would  scan 
Definite  round. 

I  know  not  if  I  shape 
These  things  with  accurate  similitude 
From  visible  objects,  for  but  dimly  now. 
Less  vivid  than  a  half-forgotten  dream, 
The  memory  of  that  mental  excellence 
Comes  o'er  me,  and  it  may  be  I  entwine 
The  indecision  of  my  present  mind 
With  its  past  clearness,  yet  it  seems  to  me 
"As  even  then  the  torrent  of  quick  thought 
Absorbed  me  from  the  nature  of  itself 
With  its  own  fleetuess.    Where  is  he,  that  borne 
Adown  the  sloping  of  an  arrowy  stream. 
Could  link  his  shalop  to  the  fleeting  edge, 
And  muse  midway  with  philosophic  calm 
Upon  the  wondrous  laws  which  regulate 
The  fierceness  of  the  bounding  element  ? 

My  thoughts  which  long  had  grovelled  In  the  si  niu 
Of  this  dull  world,  like  dusky  worms  which  house 
Beneath  unshaken  watcri<,  but  at  once 
Upon  some  earth-awakening  day  of  Spring 
Do  pass  from  gloom  to  glory,  and  aloft 
Winnow  the  purple,  bearing  on  both  sides 
Double  difplay  of  star-lit  wings,  which  barn 
Fan-like  and  fibred  with  intenbest  bloom ; 
Even  so  my  thoughts  erewhile  so  low,  now  ftlt 
Unutterable  buoyancy  and  strength 
To  bear  them  upward  through  the  trackless  fiv'Aa 
Of  undefined  cxistcuco  far  and  free. 

Then  first  within  the  South  methoagbt  I  aaw 
A  wilderness  of  spires,  and  crystal  pile 
Of  rampart  upon  rampart,  dome  on  dome, 
Illimitable*  range  of  battlement 
On  battlement,  and  the  Imperial  height 
Of  canopy  o'ercanopied. 

Behind 
In  diamond  light  up  spring  the  dazzling  peaks 
Of  Pyramids,  as  far  surpassing  earth'a 
As  heaven  than  earth  is  fairer.    Each  aloft 
Upon  his  narrowed  eminence  bore  globes 
Of  wheeling  suns,  or  stars,  or  semblances 
Of  either,  showering  circular  abyss 
Of  radiance.    But  the  glory  of  the  place 
Stood  out  a  pillared  front  of  burnished  gold. 
Interminably  high,  if  gold  it  were 
Or  metal  more  ethereal,  and  beneath 
Two  doors  of  blinding  brillinnce,  where  no  gaze 
Might  rest,  stood  open,  and  the  eye  could  scan. 
Through  length  of  porch  and  valve  and  boand'.ei<s 

hall, 
Part  of  a  throne  of  fiery  flame,  whercfroni 
The  snowy  8klrtiu<;  of  a  garment  hung. 
And  gliinpi-c  of  multitude  of  multitudes 
That  ministered  around  it  — if  I  saw 
These  things  distinctly,  for  my  human  brain 
Staggered  beneath  the  vision,  and  thick  night 
Came  down  upon  my  eyelids,  and  I  fell. 

With  ministering  hand  he  raised  me  up_: 
Then  with  a  mournful  and  ineffable  smile, 
Which  but  to  look  on  for  a  moment  filled 


My  eyes  with  Irresistible  sweet  tears, 

In  accents  of  majestic  melody. 

Like  a  swoln  river's  gushings  in  still  night 

Mingled  with  floating  music,  thus  he  spake: 

"There  is  no  mightier  Spirit  than  I  to  sway 
The  heart  of  man ;  and  teach  him  to  attain 
By  shadowing  forth  the  Unattainable ; 
And  step  by  step  to  scale  that  mighty  stair 
Whose  landing-place  is  wrapt  about  with  clouds 
Of  glory  of  heaven.*    With  earliest  light  of  Spriug, 
And  in  the  glow  of  sallow  Summertlde, 
And  In  red  Autumn  when  the  winds  are  wild 
With  gambols,  and  when  full-voiced  Winter  roo& 
The  headland  with  inviolate  white  snow, 
I  play  about  his  heart  a  thousand  ways. 
Visit  his  eyes  with  visions,  and  his  ears 
With  harmonies  of  wind  and  wave  and  wood, 
—  Of  winds  which  tell  of  waters,  and  of  waters 
Betraying  the  close  kisses  of  the  wind  — 
And  win  him  unto  me:  and  few  there  be 
So  gross  of  heart  who  have  not  felt  and  known 
A  higher  than  they  see:  they  with  dim  eyes 
Behold  me  darkling.    Lo!  I  have  given  thee 
To  nnderstand  my  presence,  and  to  feel 
My  fullness:  I  have  filled  thy  lips  with  power. 
I  have  raised  thee  uigher  to  the  spheres  of  heaven, 
Man's  first,  last  home :  and  thou  with  ravished  sense 
Listeuest  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years.    I  am  the  Spirit, 
The  permeating  life  which  courseth  through 
All  th'  intricate  and  labyrinthine  veins 
Of  the  great  vine  of  Fable,  which,  outspread 
With  growth  of  shadowing  leaf  and  clusters  rare, 
Reachetb  to  every  corner  under  heaven, 
Deep-rooted  in  the  living  soil  of  truth ; 
So  that  men's  hopes  and  fears  take  refuge  in 
The  fragrance  of  its  complicated  glooms. 
And  cool  impleacb^d  twilights.    Child  of  man, 
Seest  thou  yon  river,  whose  translucent  wave, 
Forth  issuing  from  the  darkness,  windeth  througli 
The  argent  streets  o'  the  city,  imaging 
The  soft  inversion  of  her  tremulous  domes. 
Her  gardens  (ivqnent  with  the  stately  palm. 
Her  pagbds  bnng  with  mnsic  of  sweet  bells, 
Her  obelisks  of  rangM  chrysolite. 
Minarets  and  towers  t    Lo !  how  be  passeth  by. 
And  gnlphs  hbnself  in  sands,  as  not  enduring 
To  carry  thro^ii  the  world  those  waves,  which  bore 
The  reflex  of  my  city  in  their  depths. 
Oh  city:  oh  latest  throne!  where  I  was  raised 
To  be  a  mystery  of  loveliness 
Unto  all  eyes,  the  time  is  well-nigh  come 
When  I  must  render  up  this  glorious  home 
To  keen  Discovery;  soon  yon  brilliant  towers 
Shall  darken  with  .the  waving  of  her  wand ; 
Darken  and  shrink  and  shiver  into  huts, 
Black  sjjecks  amid  a  waste  of  dreary  sand, 
Low-built,  mud-walled,  barbarian  settlements. 
How  changed  from  this  foir  city '." 

Tkns  far  the  Spirit: 
Then  parted  heaven-ward  on  the  wing:  and  I 
Was  left  alone  on  Calpe,  and  the  moon 
Had  fallen  from  the  night,  and  all  was  dark ! 


*  "  Be  >-«  iMr<«ct,«TUi  w  your  imttier  in  facarea  U  perltnt." 


KLEQIAC&— THE  "HOW"  AND  THK  "WHY." 


285 


POEMS  PUBLISHED  IN  THE  EDITION  OF  1830, 
AND  OMITTED  IN  LATER  EDITIONS. 


KLlA.IACS. 

LuwrLowi.No  brcexeii  arc  roamlug  the  broad  valley 

dimmed  in  the  Kl>>n>luK: 
Tbro'  the  blackstemmed  pinea  ouly  the  ftu'  river 

shines. 
Creeping  throogh  blossomy  msbea  and  bowers  of 

roeeblowing  bashes, 
Down  by  the  poplar  tall  rivniets  babble  and  fUL 
Barketh  the  shepherd-dog  cheerly :  the  grasshopper 

carolleth  clearly; 
Deeply  the  turtle  coos ;  shrilly  the  owlet  hallooe ; 
Winds  creep:  dews  fall  chillv:   in  her  first  sleep 

earth  breathes  stilly : 
Over  the  pools  in  the  bum  watergnats  marmor  and 

moam. 
Sadly  the  flu-  kine  lowetb:   the  glimmering  water 

oatfloweth  : 
Twin  peaks  shadowed  with  pine  slope  to  the  dark 

hyaline. 
Lowtbroned    Hesper   is   stayed  between    the    two 

peaks;  bnt  the  Naiad 
Throbbing  in  wild  unrest  holds  him  beneath  in  her 

breast 
The  ancient  poetess  singeth  that  Hesperus  all  things 

bringeth, 
Smoothing  the  wearied  mind:  bring  me  my  love, 

Rosalind. 
Thou  comest  morning  and  even;  she  cometh  not 

morning  or  even. 
False-eyed  Hesper,  unkiud,  where  is  my  sweet  Ro- 

saUndr 


THE  "HOW"  AND  THE  "WHY." 

T 
I  AM  any  man's  suitor, 
If  any  will  be  my  tutor: 
i>ome  say  this  life  is  pleasant, 
Some  think  it  speedeth  fast, 
In  time  there  is  no  present, 
In  eternity  no  future. 
In  eternity  no  past. 
We  laugh,  we  cry,  we  are  bom,  we  die. 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the  vohjf 

The  btilmsh  nods  unto  its  brother. 

The  whcatears  whisper  to  each  other: 

What  is  it  they  say  T  what  do  they  there  1 

Why  two  and  two  make  four?  why  round  is  not 

square? 
Why  the  rock  stands  still,  and  the  light  clouds  fly  ? 
Why  the  heavy  oak  g^roans,  and  the  white  willows 

sigh? 
Why  deep  is  not  high,  and  high  is  not  deep? 
Whether  we  wake,  or  whether  we  sleep? 
Whether  we  sleep,  or  whether  we  die? 
Uow  you  are  yon?  why  I  am  I? 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the  whyt 

The  world  is  somewhat;  it  goes  on  somehow: 
Bnt  what  is  the  meaning  of  then  and  twwt 

I  feel  there  is  something;  but  how  and  what? 
I  know  there  is  somewhat:  bnt  what  and  why? 
I  cannot  tell  if  that  somewhat  t>e  L 


The  little  bird  pipeth  — "why?  whyr 
!n  the  sammer  woods  when  the  sun  falls  low, 
And  the  great  bird  sita  on  the  up|>oKlto  bougb. 
And  stares  in  his  Cue,  and  shouts  "huw?  how? " 
And  the  black  owl  scuds  down  the  mellow  twiltKhi. 
And  chants  "how?  how?"  the  whole  of  the  ul|:'ut. 

Why  the  life  goes  when  the  blood  ia  spilt? 

What  the  life  is?  where  the  soni  may  lie? 
Why  a  church  is  with  a  steeple  built: 
And  a  house  with  a  chimney-pot? 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the  what? 

Who  will  riddle  mo  the  what  and  the  why  ? 


SUPPOSED  CONFI-:SSIONS 

OF  A  8ECONI>-KATE   SENSITIVE    MIND    NOT    IN 
UNITY  WITH    ITSELF. 

On  God!  my  God  I  have  mercy  now. 

1  faiut.  I  full.    Men  say  that  thou 

Didst  die  for  me,  for  such  as  ine. 

Patient  of  ill,  and  death,  and  scoru, 

And  that  my  sin  was  as  a  thorn 

Amoug  the  thorns  that  girt  thy  brow, 

Wounding  thy  soul. —That  even  now. 

In  this  extremest  misery 

Of  ignorance,  I  should  require 

A  sign !  and  if  a  bolt  of  lire 

Would  rive  the  slumbrous  summer  ncii 

While  I  do  pray  to  thee  alone, 

Think  my  belief  would  stronger  grow  \ 

Is  not  my  human  pride  brought  low  ? 

The  boastings  of  my  spirit  still? 

The  joy  I  had  in  my  free  will 

All  cold,  and  dead,  and  corpse-like  grown  ? 

And  what  is  left  to  me,  but  thou, 

And  faith  in  thee  ?    Men  pass  me  by : 

Christians  with  happy  countenances  — 

And  children  all  seem  full  of  thee ! 

And  women  smile  with  Haiutlike  glatices 

Like  thine  own  mother's  when  she  bowed 

Above  thee,  on  that  happy  mom 

When  angels  spake  to  men  aloud, 

And  thnn  and  peace  to  earth  were  born. 

Goodwill  to  me  as  well  as  all  — 

—  I  one  of  them :  my  brothers  they : 

Brothers  in  Christ  — a  world  of  peace 

And  confidence,  day  after  day ; 
And  trust  and  hope  till  things  should  ccn>e. 

And  then  one  Heaven  receive  us  all. 

How  sweet  to  have  a  common  faith  t 
To  hold  a  common  scorn  of  death ! 
And  at  a  burial  to  hear 

The  creaking  cords  which  wound  and  eat 
Into  my  human  heart,  whene'er 
Earth  goes  to  earth,  with  grief,  not  fear. 

With  hopeftal  grief^  were  passing  sweet ! 
A  grief  not  uninformed,  and  dull. 
Hearted  with  hope,  of  hope  as  fhll 
As  is  {he  blood  with  life,  or  night 
And  a  dark  dond  with  rich  moonlight. 
To  stand  beside  a  grave,  and  see 
The  red  small  atoms  wherewith  we 


236        SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS  OF  A  SECOND-RATE  SENSITIVE  MIND. 


Are  bnilt,  and  emile  in  calm,  and  say  — 
"  These  little  motes  and  grains  shall  be 
Clothed  on  with  immortality 
More  glorioas  than  the  noon  of  day. 
All  that  is  pass'd  into  the  flowers, 
And  into  beasts  and  other  men, 
And  all  the  Norland  whirlwind  showers 
From  open  vaults,  and  all  the  sea 
O'erwashes  with  sharp  salts,  again 
Shall  fleet  together  all,  and  be 
Indued  with  immortality." 

Thrice  happy  state  again  to  be 

The  trustful  Infant  on  the  kneel 

Who  lets  his  waxen  fingers  play 

About  his  mother's  necl<,  and  Icnows 

Nothing  beyond  his  mother's  eyes. 

They  comfort  him  by  night  and  day, 

They  light  his  little  life  alway; 

He  hath  no  thought  of  coming  woes ; 

He  hath  no  care  of  life  or  death, 

Scarce  outward  signs  of  Joy  ariM, 

Because  the  Spirit  of  happineea 

And  perfect  rest  so  inward  is ; 

And  loveth  so  his  innocent  heart. 

Her  temple  and  her  place  of  birth, 

Where  she  would  ever  wish  to  dwell. 

Life  of  the  fountain  there,  beneath 

Its  lalient  springs,  and  fur  apart. 

Hating  to  wander  out  on  earth. 

Or  breathe  into  the  hollow  air, 

Whose  chillnese  would  make  visible 

Her  subtil,  warm,  and  golden  breath, 

Which  mixing  with  the  infant's  blood, 

Fullfllls  him  with  beatitude. 

Oh !  sure  it  is  a  special  care 

Of  God,  to  fortify  from  doubt, 

To  arm  In  proof,  and  guard  about 

With  triple  mailM  trust,  and  clear 

Delight,  the  infant's  dawning  year. 

Would  that  my  gloomed  fancy  were 

As  thine,  my  mother,  when  with  brow» 

Propped  on  thy  knees,  my  bands  upheld 

In  thine,  I  listened  to  thy  vows, 

For  me  outpoured  In  holiest  prayer— 

For  me  unworthy  I  — and  beheld 

Thy  mild  deep  eyes  npraiaed,  that  knew 

The  beauty  and  repooe  of  faith, 

And  the  clear  spirit  shining  tbroagh. 

Oh  1  wherefore  do  we  grow  awry 

From  roots  which  strike  eo  deep  f  why  dare 

Paths  in  the  desert?    Could  not  I 

Bow  myself  down,  where  thou  hast  knelt. 

To  th' earth  — until  the  ice  would  melt 

Here,  and  I  feel  as  thou  hast  felt  ? 

What  Devil  had  the  heart  to  scathe 

Flowers  thou  hadst  reared  — to  brush  the  dew 

From  thine  own  lily,  when  thy  grave 

Was  deep,  my  mother,  in  the  clay? 

Myself?    Is  it  thus?    Myself?    Had  I 

So  little  love  for  thee?    But  why 

Prevailed  not  thy  pure  proyers  ?    Why  pray 

To  one  who  heeds  not,  who  can  save 

But  will  not?    Great  in  faith,  and  strong 

Against  the  grief  of  circumstance 

Wert  thou,  and  yet  unheard  ?    What-  if 

Thou  pleadest  still,  and  seest  me  drive 

Through  utter  dark  a  full-sailed  sklfi; 

Unpiloted  i'  the  echoing  dance 

Of  reboaut  whirlwinds,  stooping  low 

Unto  the  death,  not  !<unk  1    I  know 

At  matins  and  at  evensong, 

That  thou,  if  thou  wert  yet  alive. 

In  deep  and  daily  prayers  would'st  strive 

To  reconcile  me  with  thy  God. 

Albeit,  my  hope  is  gray,  and  cold 

At  heart,  thou  wouldest  murmur  still  — 

"Bring  this  lamb  back  Into  thy  fold, 


My  Lord,  If  so  it  be  thy  will." 

Would'st  tell  me  I  must  brook  the  rod. 

And  chastisement  of  human  pride ; 

That  pride,  the  sin  of  devils,  stood 

Betwixt  me  and  the  light  of  God ! 

That  hitherto  I  had  defied, 

And  had  rejected  God  —  that  Grace 

Would  drop  from  his  o'erbrimming  love, 

As  manna  on  my  wilderness, 

If  I  would  pray —  that  God  would  move 

And  strike  the  hard,  hard  rock,  and  thence. 

Sweet  in  their  atmoet  bitterness. 

Would  issue  tears  of  penitence 

^\'hich  would  keep  preen  hope's  life.    Alas ! 

I  think  that  pride  hath  now  no  place 

Or  sojouru  In  me.    I  am  void. 

Dark,  formless,  utterly  destroyed. 

Why  not  believe  then  ?    Why  not  yet 
Anchor  thy  frailty  there,  where  man 
Hath  moored  and  rested?    Ask  the  sea 
At  midnight,  when  the  crisp  slope  waves 
After  a  tempest,  rib  and  tret 
The  broadimbasM  beach,  why  he 
Slumbers  not  like  (^  mountain  torn  ? 
Wherefore  bis  ridges  are  not  curls 
And  ripples  of  an  inland  meer? 
Wherefore  he  moancth  thus,  nor  can 
Draw  down  into  bis  vexi-d  pools 
All  that  blue  heaven  which  hues  and  paves 
The  other?    I  am  too  forlorn. 
Too  shaken :  my  own  weakness  fools 
My  Judgment,  and  my  spirit  whirls, 
Moved  fh}m  beneath  with  doubt  and  fear. 

"Yet,"  said  I,  in  my  mom  of  youth. 

The  unsunned  ftvehness  of  my  strength, 

When  I  went  forth  in  quest  of  tmtli, 

"It  is  man's  privilege  to  donbt. 

If  so  be  that  fh>m  doubt  at  length. 

Truth  may  stand  forth  unmoved 'of  change. 

An  image  with  profolgent  brows. 

And  perfSset  limbs,  as  fh>m  the  storm 

<>t  mnnlng  itres  and  fluid  range 

Of  lawless  airs  at  last  stood  out 

This  excellence  and  solid  form 

Of  constant  lieauty.    For  the  Ox 

Feeds  in  the  herb,  and  sleeps,  or  fills 

The  homed  valleys  all  about. 

And  hollows  of  Uie  fringed  hills 

In  summerheats,  with  placid  lows 

Uufearing,  till  his  own  blood  fiows 

About  his  hoof.    And  in  the  flocks- 

The  lamb  rejolceth  in  the  year. 

And  raceth  tree\y  with  his  fere, 

And  answers  to  his  mother's  calls 

From  the  flowered  ftarrow.    In  a  time, 

Of  which  he  wots  not,  mn  short  pains 

Through  his  warm  heart ;  and  then,  from  whence 

He  Icnows  not,  on  his  light  there  falls 

A  shadow ;  and  his  native  slope. 

Where  he  was  wont  to  leap  and  climb. 

Floats  from  his  sick  and  flimed  eyes. 

And  something  in  the  darkness  draws 

His  forehead  earthward,  and  he  dies. 

Shall  men  live  thus,  in  Joy  and  hope 

As  a  young  lamb,  who  cannot  dream, 

Living,  but  that  be  shall  live  on  ? 

Shall  we  not  look  Into  the  laws 

Of  life  and  death,  and  things  that  seem. 

And  things  that  be,  and  analyze 

Our  double  nature,  and  compare 

All  creeds  till  we  have  found  the  one, 

If  one  there  be  ?"    Ay  me !    I  fear 

All  may  not  doubt,  but  every  where 

Some  must  clasp  Idols.    Yet,  my  God, 

Whom  call  I  Idol  ?    Let  thy  dove 

Shadow  me  over,  and  my  sins 


THE  nUHLVL  OF  LOVE.— TO 


■SONGS. 


287 


Uo  onrainambered,  and  tby  luve 
BnUghtea  ma.    Oh  tMch  m«  yet 
Som«wli«t  befbM  Ui«  heavy  clod 
Weighs  oo  me,  ud  the  busy  fret 
or  that  sharp-headed  worm  begina 
In  the  groaa  blackneaa  anderiMath. 

Oh  weary  Ufe  I  uh  weary  death  I 
Mb  spirit  and  heart  made  deacdate  t 
Uk  damuM  TacUlatlng  atatel 


^HE  BUIUAL  OF  LOVE. 

IIiB  eyes  In  eclipse, 
Palcculd  his  lips, 
The  light  of  his  hopes  nnIM, 
Mute  his  tongue. 
His  bow  anstntng 
With  the  tears  he  hath  shed, 
Backward  drooping  his  graceful  head. 
Love  is  dead: 
His  last  arrow  is  sped ; 
He  hath  not  another  dart: 
Oo  — carry  him  to  his  dark  deathbed: 
Bury  him  in  the  cold,  cold  heart  — 
Love  is  dead. 

Oh,  truest  love  1  art  thou  forlorn, 
And  nnrevengpd  T  thy  plcmrant  wiles 
Forpottcn,  and  thine  innocent  Joy? 
Shall  hollowhcarted  apathy, 
The  cruellest  form  of  perfect  sconi, 
With  langnor  of  most  hatefbl  siuilea, 
For  ever  write, 
In  the  withered  light 
Of  the  tearless  eye. 
An  epitaph  that  all  may  spy? 
No  1  sooner  she  herself  ebaU  die. 

For  her  the  showers  shall  not  fall, 

Nor  the  round  sun  shine  that  shiueth  to  all ; 

Her  light  shall  into  darkness  change ; 
For  her  the  green  grass  shall  not  spring. 
Nor  the  riverq  flow,  nor  the  sweet  birds  sing, 

Till  Love  have  his  full  revenge. 


TO 


SAorrKD  Juliet !  dearest  name ! 
If  to  love  be  life  alone, 
Divinest  Juliet, 
I  love  thee,  and  live :  and  yet 
Love  unretumed  is  like  the  fhtgrant  flame 
Folding  the  slaughter  of  the  sacrifice 

Offered  to  gods  upon  an  altar-throne; 
My  heart  is  lighted  at  thine  eyes, 
Chaq^ied  into  fire,  and  blown  about  with  sighs. 


SONG. 
L 

I'  THK  glooming  light 

Of  middle  night 

So  cold  aud  white, 
Worn  Sorrow  sits  by  the  moaning  wave. 

Beside  her  are  laid 

Her  mattock  and  spade. 
For  she  hath  half  delved  her  own  deep  grave. 

Alone  she  is  there: 
The  white  clouds  drizzle :  her  hair  falls  loose : 

Her  shoulders  are  bare ; 
Her  tears  are  mixed  with  the  beaded  dews. 


n. 

Death  sUndcth  by ; 

She  will  nut  die; 

With  glaaM  «y« 
Sb«  looks  at  her  grava:  ate  cannot  atoep; 

Kver  alone 

Ste  makeih  her  moan : 
Ste  cannot  apeak :  she  can  only  weep. 

For  she  will  not  hii|>e. 
The  thick  snow  fltlls  on  her  flake  by  flake. 

The  dull  wave  mourns  down  the  slope, 
Tha  worid  will  not  change,  and  her  heart  wiU  not 
break. 


SONG. 
I. 

ToB  lintwhite  and  the  ihnMtlecock 
Have  voices  sweet  and  dear; 
All  in  the  bloom6d  May. 
They  ttom  the  bloemy  brere 
Call  to  the  flectiuK  year. 
If  that  be  would  them  hear 

And  stay. 
Alas!  that  one  so  beautilXil 
Should  have  so  dull  an  ear. 

IL 
Fair  year,  fair  year,  thy  children  coll, 
But  thou  art  deaf  as  death ; 
All  in  the  bloomM  May. 
When  thy  light  perlshelh 
That  from  thee  Isencth, 
Our  life  cvanieheth: 

Oh!  stay. 
Alas  I  that  lips  so  cruel-dumb 
Should  have  so  sweet  a  breath ! 

nL 

Fair  year,  with  brows  of  royal  love 
Thou  comest,  as  a  king, 

All  in  the  b1oom6d  May. 
Thy  golden  largess  fling. 
And  longer  hear  us  sing ; 
Though  thou  art  fleet  of  wing. 

Yet  stay. 
Alas !  that  eyes  so  fbll  of  light 
Should  be  so  wandering  I 

IV. 

Thy  locks  are  all  of  sunny  sheen 
In  rings  of  gold  yronne,* 

All  in  the  bloomC-d  May. 
We  pri'thee  pass  not  on : 
If  thou  dost  leave  the  sun, 
Delight  is  with  thee  gone. 

Oh!  stay. 
Thou  art  the  fairest  of  thy  feres. 
We  pri'thee  pass  not  on. 


SONG. 

L 

Btebt  day  hath  its  night : 

Every  night  its  mom: 
Thorough  dark  and  bright 
Wingi'd  hours  are  borce : 
Ah!  wclaway! 
Seasons  flower  and  fade : 
Golden  calm  and  storm 
Mingle  day  by  day. 
There  is  no  bright  form 
Doth  not  cast  a  shade — 
Ah  I  welawayl 

■  Hi>  aitfi  Ub  ia  ilH<*  «« jrroaa^"— Ciaccss,  KnigU'i  Tmlt. 


2*38 


NOTHING  WILL  DIE.— HERO  TO  LEANDER. 


II. 

When  we  laagb,  and  our  mirth 

Apes  the  happy  vein, 
We're  so  kin  to  earth, 
Pleasaunce  fathers  pain  — 
Ah !  welaway ! 
Madnetis  laugheth  lond: 
Laughter  bringeth  tears: 
Eyes  are  worn  away 
Till  the  end  of  fears 
Cometh  in  the  shroud, 
Ah !  welaway  I 

IlL 
All  is  change,  woe  or  weal ; 

Joy  Is  Sorrow's  brother; 
(irief  and  gladness  steal 
Symbols  of  each  other ; 
Ah !  welaway ! 
Larks  iu  heaven's  cope 
Bing:  the  culvers  monm 
All  the  livelong  day. 
Be  not  all  forlorn: 
Let  us  weep  in  hope  — 
Ah !  welaway ! 


NOTHING  WILL  DIE. 
^\'llKN  will  the  stream  be  aweary  of  flowing 

Under  my  eye? 
Wfien  will  the  wind  be  aweary  of  blowing 

Over  the  sky? 
When  will  the  clouds  be  aweary  of  fleeting? 
When  will  the  heart  be  aweary  of  beating? 

And  nature  die? 
Never,  oh  I  never,  nothing  will  die ; 

The  stream  flows. 

The  wind  blows, 

The  cloud  fleets, 

The  heart  beats. 
Nothing  will  die. 

Nothing  will  die: 

All  things  will  change 
Through  eternity. 
Tls  the  world's  winter; 
Autnmn  and  summer 
Are  gone  long  ago. 
Earth  is  dry  to  the  centre. 

But  spring  a  new  comer — 
A  spring  rich  and  strange. 
Shall  make  the  winds  blow 
Round  and  round. 
Through  and  through, 
Here  and  there. 
Till  the  air 
And  the  ground 
Shall  be  filled  with  life  anew. 
The  world  was  never  made ; 
It  will  change,  but  it  will  not  fade. 
So  let  the  wind  range; 
For  even  and  morn 
Ever  will  be 
Through  eternity. 
Nothing  was  bom ; 
Nothing  will  die : 
All  things  will  change. 


ALL  THINGS  WILL  DIE. 
C1.KARI.T  the  blue  river  chimes  in  its  flowing 

Under  my  eye ; 
Warmly  and  broadly  the  south  winds  are  blowing 

Over  the  sky. 
One  after  another  the  white  clouds  are  fleeting; 
Every  heart  this  Maymorning  in  joyance  is  beating 

Full  merrily; 


Yet  all  things  must  die. 
The  stream  will  cease  to  flow; 
The  wind  will  cease  to  blow ; 
The  clouds  will  cease  to  fleet ; 
The  heart  will  cease  to  beat ; 

For  all  things  must  die. 

All  things  must  die. 
Spring  will  come  never  moie. 

Oh!  vanity! 
Death  waits  at  the  door. 
See!  our  friends  arc  all  forsakiig 
The  wine  and  merrymaking. 
We  are  called  — we  must  go. 
Laid  low,  very  low,  B 

In  the  dark  we  must  lie. 
The  merry  glees  are  still ; 

The  voice  of  the  bird 

Shall  no  more  be  heard, 
Nor  the  wind  on  the  hilL 
Oh!  misery! 

Hark !  death  is  calling 

While  1  speak  to  ye, 

The  jaw  is  falling, 

The  red  cheek  paling. 

The  strong  limbs  failing; 

Ice  with  the  warm  blood  mixing ; 

The  eyeballs  fixing. 

Nine  times  goes  the  passing  bell : 

Ye  merry  sonla,  fiirewelL 

The  old  earth 

Had  a  birth. 

As  all  men  know 

Long  ago. 
And  the  old  earth  mnst  die. 
So  let  the  warm  winds  range. 
And  the  blue  wave  beat  the  shore; 
For  even  and  mom 
Ye  will  never  see 
Through  eternity. 
All  things  were  born. 
Ye  will  come  never  more, 
For  all  things  must  die. 


HERO  TO  LEANDER. 
<  >H  go  not  yet,  my  love, 

The  night  is  dark  and  vast; 
The  white  moon  Is  hid  in  her  heaven  nbi  ve. 

And  the  waves  climb  high  and  fast. 
Oh !  kiss  me,  kiss  me,  once  again. 

Lest  thy  kiss  should  be  the  last. 
Oh  kiss  me  ere  we  part ; 
Grow  closer  to  my  heart. 
My  heart  is  warmer  sorely  than  the  boeom  of  the 
main. 
O  Joy !  O  bliss  of  blisses ! 

My  heart  of  hearts  art  thou. 
Come  bathe  me  with  thy  kisses. 

My  eyelids  and  my  brow. 
Hark  how  the  wild  rain  hisses, 

And  the  loud  sea  roars  below. 

Thy  heart  beats  through  thy  rosy  limbs, 

So  gladly  doth  it  stir ; 
Thine  eye  in  drops  of  gladness  swims. 

I  have  bathed  thee  with  the  pleasant  myrrh ; 
Thy  locks  are  dripping  balm; 
Thou  Shalt  not  wander  hence  to-night, 

I'll  stay  thee  with  my  kisses. 
To-night  the  roaring  brine 

Will  rend  thy  golden  tresses; 
The  ocean  with  the  morrow  light 
Will  be  both  blue  and  calm ; 
And  the  billow  will  embrace  thee  with  a  kiss  as  soft 
as  mine. 


TilK  MYhlU  .— iliK  tiHASMlul'PKli.— CHoHl .-. 


:•«•» 


No  WMtern  odonn  wuider 

Ou  the  black  and  mtmnlng  mr. 
And  when  thou  art  domi,  LcaRcr, 

My  soul  mu»t  Tollow  the«  i 
Oh  go  not  yel,  my  lovo. 

Thy  volc«  la  awcot  and  low; 
The  d«ep  talt  wavo  braaka  lu  abovo 

Thoae  nuurbto  atepa  below. 
Tbo  tumutaira  ara  wet 

Tbat  lead  Into  Ute  ee*. 
Leander  I  go  not  yet 
The  pleaaant  atan  have  aeti 
Oh !  go  not,  go  not  yet. 

Or  I  will  Ibllow  thee. 


TIIK  MYSTIC. 

Akobu  have  talked  with  him,  and  ahowed  him 

tbroneti: 
Te  knew  him  not ;  he  waa  not  one  of  ye, 
Ye  acorncd  him  with  an  nndlsceming  econi : 
Ye  could  not  read  the  marvel  In  his  eye. 
The  still  serene  abstraction :  he  hath  felt 
The  Tanltles  of  after  and  before ; 
Albeit,  Ms  spirit  and  his  secret  heart 
The  stem  experiences  of  converse  lives, 
The  llnkM  woes  of  many  a  flery  change 
Had  puriflod,  and  chni«tcned,  and  made  ttcc. 
Always  there  »tooA  hcrore  him,  night  and  day, 
Of  wayward  varycolored  circumstance 
The  imperishable  presences  serene, 
Colossal,  without  form,  or  sense,  or  sonnd, 
Dim  shadows  but  unwaning  presences 
Fonrfttcdd  to  four  corners  of  the  sky : 
And  yet  again,  three  shadown,  fronting  one, 
One  forward,  one  respectant,  three  but  one ; 
And  yet  again,  again  and  evermore, 
For  the  two  first  were  not,  but  only  seemed, 
One  shndow  in  the  midst  of  a  great  light. 
One  reflex  from  eternity  on  time. 
One  mighty  countenance  of  perfect  calm. 
Awful  with  most  invariable  eyes. 
For  him  the  silent  con^egatcd  hours. 
Daughters  of  time,  divinely  tnll,  iMMieath 
Severe  and  youthful  brows,  with  shining  eyes 
Smiling  a  godlike  smile  (the  innocent  light 
Of  earliest  youth  pierced  through  and  through  with 

all 
Keen  knowledges  of  low-€mbow6d  eld) 
Upheld,  and  ever  bold  aloft  the  cloud 
Which  droops  lowhnng  on  either  gate  of  life, 
Both  birth  and  death:  he  in  the  centre  fixt. 
Saw  far  on  each  side  through  the  grated  gates 
Most  pale  and  clear  and  lovely  distances. 
He  often  lying  broad  awake,  and  yet 
Remaining  from  the  body,  and  apart 
In  intellect  and  power  and  will,  hath  heard 
Time  flowing  in  the  middle  of  the  night. 
And  all  things  creeping  to  a  day  of  doom. 
How  conid  ye  know  him  f    Ye  were  yet  within 
The  narrower  circle :  he  had  wellnigfa  reached 
The  last,  which  with  a  region  of  white  flame, 
Pure  without  heat.  Into  a  larger  air 
Upbnmlng,  and  an  ether  of  black  bine, 
Investeth  and  ingirds  all  other  Uvesi 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 
I. 
Voios  of  the  snmmerwlnd, 
Joy  of  the  snmmerplain, 
Life  of  the  snmmerhours, 
Carol  clearly,  boiud  along. 
No  Tlthon  thou  as  poets  feign 
(Shame  fall  'em  they  are  deaf  and  blind), 


But  an  Insect  lllhe  and  strong. 
Howing  the  seeded  sammer  flower*, 
fnive  their  fltlaehood  and  thy  quarrel, 

Vanltliii'     •    ■'  '■  ■  niry  feet. 
Clap  thy  '  N  and  carol, 

Carol  rlr  '  ;iji  sweet. 

Thon  art  a  m»ll«kl  warrior  In  youth  tod  strength 
complete ; 

Armed  cap^-ple 
Fall  Iklr  to  see : 
Unknowing  fear, 
Undreading  lose, 
A  gallant  cavalier. 
Stmt  ptur  «t  mma  rfproehe^ 
In  sonlight  and  In  shadow, 
The  Bayard  of  the  meadow. 

IL 

I  would  dwell  with  thee, 

Merry  grasshopper, 
Thou  art  so  glad  and  free, 

And  as  light  as  air; 
Thon  hast  no  sorrow  or  tears, 
Thon  hast  no  compt  of  yean-. 
No  withered  immortality. 
But  a  short  youth  sunny  and  fiee. 
Carol  clearly,  bound  along, 

Soon  thy  Joy  is  over, 
A  summer  of  loud  song, 

And  sluml)crH  In  the  clover. 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil 
In  thine  hour  of  love  and  revel. 

In  thy  heat  of  summer  pride, 
Pushing  the  thick  roots  aside 
Of  the  singinj;  flowcri-d  grasses, 
That  brush  thee  with  their  silken  ti esses* 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil, 
Shooting,  singing,  ever  springing 

In  and  out  the  emerald  gloomn, 
Ever  leaping,  ever  singing. 

Lighting  on  the  golden  blooms  t 


LOVE,  PRTOE,  AND  FORGETFULNE.^S. 

Bbx  yet  my  heart  was  sweet  Love's  tomb, 

Love  laboured  honey  busily. 

I  was  the  hive,  and  Love  the  hee. 

My  heart  the  honeycomb. 

One  very  dark  and  chilly  night 

Pride  came  beneath  and  held  a  light. 

The  cruel  vapours  went  through  all. 

Sweet  Love  was  withered  in  his  cell ; 

Pride  took  Love's  sweets,  and  by  a  spell 

Did  change  them  into  gall ; 

And  Memory,  though  fed  by  Pride, 

Did  wax  so  thin  on  gall, 
I  Awhile  she  scarcely  lived  at  all. 

I  What  marvel  tbat  she  died? 


CHORUS 
n<  AM  TnrrvBXJSBKD  drama,  waimN  tkst  easi.v. 
Thi!  varied  earth,  the  moving  heaven, 

The  rapid  waste  of  roving  sea. 
The  fountainpregnant  mountains  riven 

To  shapes  of  wildest  anarchy. 
By  secret  flre  and  midnlirht  storms 

That  wander  round  their  windy  cone, 
The  snbtle  life,  the  countless  forms 
Of  living  things,  the  wondrous  tones 
Of  man  and  beast  are  full  of  strange 
Astonishment  and  tMiundlees  change. 


240 


LOST  HOPE— LOVE  AND  SORROW.— SONNETS. 


The  day,  the  diamonded  night, 

The  echo,  feeble  child  of  eoand, 
The  heavy  thunder's  griding  might. 

The  herald  lightning's  starry  bound. 
The  vocal  spring  of  bursting  bloom, 

The  naked  summer's  glowing  birth. 
The  troublous  autumn's  sallow  gloom. 

The  hoarhead  winter  paving  earth 
With  sheeny  white,  are  full  of  strange 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change. 

Each  sun  which  from  the  centre  flings 

Grand  music  and  redundant  Are, 
The  burning  belts,  the  mighty  rings, 

The  murm'rous  planets'  rolling  choir. 
The  globefllled  arch  that,  cleaving  air. 

Lost  in  its  own  effulgence  sleeps, 
The  lawless  comets  as  they  glare, 

And  thunder  through  the  sapphire  deeps 
In  wayward  strength,  are  full  of  strange 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change. 


LOST  HOPE. 

Yon  cast  to  gjonnd  the  hope  which  once  was  mine : 
But  did  the  while  your  harsh  decree  deplore, 

Krnbalniiii^'  with  sweet  tears  the  vacant  shrine, 
.My  heart,  where  Uope  had  been  and  waa  no  more. 

So  on  an  oaken  apron t 
A  goodly  acorn  grew; 
Bat  winds  from  heaven  shook  the  acorn  ont, 
And  filled  the  cop  with  dew. 


THE  TEARS  OF  HEAVEN. 

Heaven  weeps  above  the  earth  all  night  till  mom, 
Id  darkness  weeps  as  all  ashamed  to  weep. 
Because  the  earth  hath  made  her  state  forlorn 
With  self-wrongbt  evil  of  unnumbered  yean, 
And  doth  the  fhiit  of  her  dishonor  reap. 
And  all  the  day  heaven  gathers  back  her  tears 
Into  her  own  bine  eyes  so  clear  and  deep, 
And  showering  down  the  glory  of  lightsome  day, 
Hmiles  on  the  earth's  worn  brow  to  win  her  if  she 
may. 


LOVE  AND  SORROW. 

()  MAiDKM,  fresher  than  the  first  green  leaf 

With  which  the  fearful  springtide  flecks  the  lea. 

Weep  not,  Almeida,  that  I  said  to  thee 

That  thou  hast  half  my  heart,  for  bitter  grief 

Doth  hold  the  other  half  in  sovranty. 

Thou  art  my  heart's  sun  in  love's  crystalline: 

Yet  on  both  sides  at  once  thon  canst  not  shine: 

Thine  is  the  bright  side  of  my  heart,  and  thine 

My  heart's  day,  but  the  shadow  of  my  heart. 

Issue  of  its  own  substance,  my  heart's  night 

Thou  canst  not  lighten  even  with  thy  light, 

AUpowerful  in  beauty  as  thou  art 

Almeida,  if  my  heart  were  substanceless, 

Then  might  thy  rays  pass  through  to  the  other  side, 

So  swiftly,  that  they  nowhere  would  abide, 

But  lose  themselves  in  utter  emptiness. 

Half-light,  half-shadow,  let  ray  spirit  sleep : 

They  never  learned  to  love  who  never  knew  to  weep. 


TO  A  LADY  SLEEPING. 

()  TiTou  whose  frlngM  lids  I  gaze  npon. 
Through  whose  dim  brain  the  winged  dreams  are 
borne. 


Unroof  the  shrines  of  clearest  vision, 

In  honor  of  the  jilver-flecked  mom ; 

Long  hath  the  white  wave  of  the  virgin  light 

Driven  back  the  billow  of  the  dreamful  dark. 

Thou  all  unwittingly  prolongest  night. 

Though  long  ago  listening  the  poised  lark. 

With  eyes  dropt  downward  through  the  blue  serene. 

Over  heaven's  parapet  the  angels  lean. 


SONNET. 

CocLD  I  ontwear  my  present  state  of  woe 
With  one  brief  winter,  and  indue  i'  the  spring 
Hues  of  treeh  youth,  and  mightily  outgrow 
The  wan  dark  coil  of  faded  suffering  — 
Forth  in  the  pride  of  beauty  issuing 
A  sheeny  snake,  the  light  of  vernal  bowers. 
Moving  his  crest  to  all  sweet  plots  of  flowers 
And  watered  valleys  where  the  young  birds  sing; 
(Um]d  I  thus  hope  my  lost  delight's  renewing, 
I  straightly  would  command  the  tears  to  creep 
From  my  charged  lids;  but  inwardly  I  weep; 
Some  vital  heat  as  yet  my  heart  Is  wooing: 
That  to  Itself  hath  drawn  the  frozen  rain 
From  my  cold  eyes,  and  melted  it  again. 


SONNET. 

Though  Night  hath   climbed  her  peak   of  highest 

noon, 
And  bitter  blasts  the  screaming  autumn  whirl. 
All  night  through  archways  of  the  bridgt  d  pearl. 
And  portals  of  pure  silver,  walks  the  moon. 
Walk  on,  my  soul,  nor  crouch  to  agony. 
Turn  cloud  to  light,  and  bitterness  to  Joy, 
And  dross  to  gold  with  glorions  alchemy, 
Basing  thy  throne  above  the  world's  annoy. 
Reign  thou  above  the  storms  of  sorrow  and  ruth 
That  roar  beneath;  nnshaken  peace  hath  won  thee; 
So  Shalt  thon  pierce  the  woven  glooms  of  troth : 
So  shall  the  blessing  of  the  meek  be  on  thee ; 
So  in  thine  hour  of  dawn,  the  body's  yonth. 
An  honourable  eld  shall  come  upon  thee. 


SONNET. 

Sball  the  hag  Evil  die  with  child  of  Goitd, 
Or  propagate  again  her  loathed  kind. 
Thronging  the  cells  of  the  disease  mind, 
Hateful  with  hanging  cheeks,  a  withered  broofl. 
Though  hourly  pastured  on  the  salient  blood  ? 
Oh !  that  the  wind  which  bloweth  cold  or  heat 
Wonid  shatter  and  o'erbear  the  brazen  beat 
Of  their  broad  vans,  and  in  the  solitude 
Of  middle  space  confound  them,  and  blow  back 
Their  wild  cries  down  their  cavern  throats,  and  slake 
With  points  of  blastbome  hail  their  heated  e3^c ! 
So  their  wan  limbs  no  more  might  come  between 
The  moon  and  the  moon's  reflex  in  the  night. 
Nor  blot  with  floating  shades  the  solar  light 


SONNET. 

The  pallid  thundcrstricken  sigh  for  gain, 
Down  an  ideal  stream  they  ever  float. 
And  sailing  on  Pactolus  in  a  boat. 
Drown  soul  and  sense,  while  Mristfiilly  they  strain 
Weak  eyes  npon  the  glistening  sands  that  robe 
The  nnderstream.    The  wise,  could  he  behold 
Cathedralled  caverns  of  thickribbed  gold 
And  branching  silvers  of  the  central  globe. 
Would  marvel  from  so  beautiftJ  a  sight 


I.OVE.— Till.   i\ivAKi-..S.  — KNiii-i.-h    »» ,\u->uMf.— NA  IU»NAL  M>NG. 


241 


How  Mora  and  rain,  pain  and  bate  oould  flow: 
Bnt  Ilatrvd  fn  a  guld  caw  «tt«  bvluw ; 
Pleached  witb  her  hair,  In  mull  (if  argvot  Ught 
Shut  Into  gold,  a  auako  her  forehead  dipa, 
And  skins  the  ookmr  Orom  her  trenbUng  lips. 


LOVE. 
I. 

Tnou,  fW>m  the  first,  unborn,  nndying  lote. 
Albeit  we  gase  not  on  thy  glorlen  near. 
Before  the  tacts  of  Hod  (liilst  breathe  and  move, 
Though  night  and  pain  and  rulu  and  death  reign 

here. 
Thou  ft>ldeet,  like  a  golden  atmonphcre. 
The  very  throne  of  the  eteraal  Ood : 
Paseing  through  thee  the  edicta  of  his  fear 
Are  mellowed  Into  music,  borne  abroad 
By  the  loud  winds,  though  they  uprend  the  sea, 
ECven  fVoin  Its  central  deeps:  thine  empcry 
Is  over  all:  thou  wilt  not  bmok  ccIIimm; 
Thou  goest  jmd  returneet  to  illtt  li]»t 
Like  lightning:  thou  dost  ever  brotnl  above 
The  silence  of  all  hearts,  unutterable  Love. 

n. 

To  know  thee  is  nil  wisdom,  and  old  age 
la  but  to  know  thee:  dimly  we  behold  thee 
Athwart  the  veils  of  evils  which  inlbld  thee. 
We  beat  upon  our  aching  hearts  in  rage; 
We  cry  for  thee;  we  deem  the  world  thy  tomb. 
As  dwellers  in  lone  planetM  look  upon 
The  mighty  disk  of  their  majestic  sun, 
Hollowed  in  awftil  chasms  of  wheeling  gloom. 
Making  their  day  dim,  so  we  gaze  on  thee. 
Come,  thou  of  many  crt)wu8,  whlterobud  love. 
Oh !  rend  the  veil  in  twain :  all  men  adore  thee ; 
Heaven  crleth  after  thee;  earth  waitcth  for  thee; 
Breathe  on  thy  winged  throne,  and  it  shall  move 
In  music  and  in  light  o'er  land  and  sea. 

in. 

And  now  — methlnks  I  gaze  upon  thee  now. 
As  on  a  serpent  in  his  agonies 
.Awestrickcn  Indians;  what  time  laid  low 
And  crushing  the  thick  fragrant  reeds  he  lies. 
When  the  new  year  warmbreathed  on  the  Eairth, 
Waiting  to  light  him  with  her  purple  skies. 
Calls  to  him  by  the  fountain  to  uprise. 
Already  with  the  pangs  of  a  new  birth 
Strain  the  hot  spheres  of  his  convulsed  eyes, 
And  in  his  writhinps  awfnl  hues  begin 
To  wander  down  his  sable-sheeny  sides. 
Like  light  on  troubled  waters :  from  within 
.\non  he  rnsheth  forth  with  merry  din. 
And  in  him  light  and  joy  and  strength  abides; 
And  from  his  brows  a  crown  of  living  light 
Looks  throngh  the  thickstemmed  woods  by  day  and 
night 


THE  KRAKEN. 

Below  the  thunders  of  the  upper  deep; 
Far,  far  beneath  In  the  abysmal  sea. 
His  ancient,  dreamless,  nninvaded  sleep. 
The  Kraken  sleepeth:  faintest  sunlights  flee 
About  his  shadowy  sides:  above  him  swell 
Huge  sponges  of  millennial  growth  and  height ; 
And  fsr  away  into  the  sickly  light. 
Prom  many  a  wcmdrons  grot  and  secret  cell 
Unnumbered  and  enormous  polypi 
Winnow  with  giant  flns  the  slumbering  green. 
There  hath  he  lain  for  ages  and  will  lie 
Battening  upon  huge  s^worms  in  his  sleep, 
Until  the  latter  fire  shall  beat  the  deep; 
Then  once  b^man  and  nnirels  to  be  seen. 
In  roaring  he  shall  rise  and  on  the  snrflKe  die. 
16 


ENGLISH  WAIUSONO. 

Who  feani  to  diet   Who  tauv  to  die  I 
la  there  any  here  who  Ibara  to  die  r 
He  ahall  find  what  he  feare;  and  none  ahall  grievp 

For  the  man  who  feare  to  die : 
Bnt  the  withering  ornm  of  the  many  shall  deavt- 
To  the  man  who  tent*  to  die, 
CuoKt'H.  —  Shout  fur  Knglandl 
Ho  !  for  England  I 
Ueorgv  for  Kugland  I 
Merry  England  I 
England  for  aye  I 

The  hollow  at  heart  shall  crouch  forlorn, 

He  shall  eat  the  bread  of  common  acorn ; 
It  shall  be  steeped  in  the  salt,  aalt  tear. 

Shall  be  steeped  in  his  own  salt  tear : 
Far  better,  far  better  he  never  were  born 

Than  to  shame  merry  England  here. 
Cuotva.  —  Shout  fur  England  1  etc 

There  aUndeth  onr  ancient  enemy: 

Hark  I  h^  shoutcth  — the  ancient  enemy  : 
On  the  ridge  of  the  hill  his  bannen  rise ; 

They  stream  like  Are  in  the  skies; 
Hold  up  the  Lion  of  England  on  high 

Till  it  dazzle  and  blind  his  eyes. 

Cuoavs.— Shout  for  England  I  etc. 

Come  along !  wo  alone  of  the  earth  are  tne ; 
The  child  in  onr  cradles  is  bolder  than  he ; 
For  where  is  the  heart  and  strength  of  slaves  f 

•     Oh  1  where  is  the  strength  of  slaves  T 
He  is  weak !  we  are  strong :  he  a  slave,  we  are  tn« : 
Come  along',  we  will  dig  their  graves. 
CuoKDS.— Shout  for  England!  etc. 

There  standcth  onr  ancient  enemy; 

Will  he  dare  to  battle  with  the  fl-ec? 
Spur  along !  spur  amain  !  charge  to  the  fight ; 

Charge !  charge  to  the  fight ! 
Hold  up  the  Lion  of  England  on  high  I 

Shout  for  God  and  our  right ! 

CnoRCB.  —  Shout  for  England!  etc. 


NAyiONAL  SONG. 

Tur.BK  is  no  laud  like  England 
Where'er  the  light  of  day  be ; 
jThere  are  no  hearts  like  English  hearts. 

Such  hearts  of  oak  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be ; 
There  are  no  men  like  Englishmen, 
So  tall  and  bold  as  they  be. 
CnoBtm.  — For  the  French  the  Pope  may  shrive  'em, 
For  the  devil  a  whit  we  heed  'em: 
As  for  the  French,  God  speed  'em 

Unto  their  heart's  desire. 
And  the  merry  devil  drive  'em 
Through  the  water  and  the  fire. 
FtTLLCBOB. — Our  glory  is  our  freedom. 
We  lord  it  o'er  the  sea; 
We  are  the  sons  of  freedom. 
We  are  free. 

There  is  no  land  like  England, 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be ; 
There  are  no  wivea  like  English  wive*, 

So  fidr  and  chaste  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England, 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be; 
There  are  no  maids  like  Oigliati  maids. 

So  beautiful  as  they  be. 
CnoBim.  — For  the  French,  etc. 


242 


DUALISMS.— WE  ARE  FREE.— Ol  piovrtc. 


DUALISMS. 

Two  bees  within  a  crystal  flowerbell  rock6d, 
Hum  a  lovelay  to  the  westwind  at  noontide. 
Both  alike,  they  buzz  together, 
Both  alike,  they  hum  together, 
Through  and  through  the  flowered  heather. 
Where  in  a  creeping  cove  the  wave  unshocked 
Lays  itself  calm  and  wide. 
Over  a  stream  two  birds  of  glancing  feather 
Do  woo  each  other,  carolling  together. 
Both  alike,  they  glide  together, 

Side  by  side ; 
Both  alike,  they  sing  together. 
Arching  blue-glo886d  necks  beneath  the  purple 
weather. 

Two  children  lovelier  than  Love  adown  the  lea  are 

singing. 
As  they  gambol,  lilygarlands  ever  stringing: 
Both  in  blosmwhite  silk  are  frockM: 
Like,  unlike,  they  roam  together 
Under  a  summervault  of  golden  weather ; 
Like,  unlike,  they  sing  together 
Side  by  side, 
MidMay's  darling  golden  locked, 
Sommer's  tanling  diamond  eyed. 


WE  ARE  FREE. 
Thk  wtnda,  as  at  their  hoar  of  birth. 
Leaning  apon  the  wingM  sea, 


Breathed  low  around  the  rolling  earth 
With  mellow  preludes,  "We  are  free.  ' 

The  streams  through  many  a  lilied  rnw 
Down-carolling  to  the  crisped  sea. 

Low-tinkled  with  a  bell-like  flow 
Atween  the  blossoms,  "We  are  free." 


All  thoughts,  all  creeds,  all  dreams  are  true. 

All  visions  wild  and  strange ; 
Man  is  the  measure  of  all  truth 

Unto  himselt    All  truth  is  change: 
All  men  do  walk  in  sleep,  and  all 

Have  faith  in  that  they  dream: 
For  all  things  are  as  they  seem  to  all, 

And  all  things  flow  like  a  stream. 

IL 
There  is  no  rest,  no  calm,  no  panse^ 

Nor  good  nor  ill,  nor  light  nor  shade, 
Nor  eeaence  nor  eternal  laws: 

For  nothing  is,  but  all  is  made. 
But  if  I  dream  that  all  these  are. 

They  are  to  me  for  that  I  dream; 
For  all  things  are  as  they  seem  to  all. 

And  all  tUngs  flow  like  a  stream. 

Argal  —  this  very  opinion  is  only  true  relatively  to 
the  flowing  ptalloeophers. 


OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 


THE  SKIPPING-ROPE.* 

Seas  never  yet  was  Antelope 

Could  skip  BO  lightly  by. 
Stand  off,  or  else  my  skipping-rope 

Will  hit  you  in  the  eye. 
How  lightly  whirls  the  skipping-rope! 

How  fidry-Uke  you  fly ! 
Go,  get  yon  gone,  you  mn^  and  mope— 

I  hate  that  silly  sigh. 
Nay,  dearest,  teach  me  how  to  hope. 

Or  tell  me  how  to  die.  | 

There,  take  It,  take  my  skipping-rope. 

And  hang  yourself  thereby. 


THE  KEW  TIMON  AND  THE  POETS.  + 
Wb  know  him,  out  of  Shakspeare's  art. 

And  those  fine  curses  which  he  spoke; 
The  old  Tlmon,  with  his  noble  heart, 
That,  strongly  loathing,  greatly  broke. 

So  died  the  Old:  here  comes  the  New. 

Regard  him:  a  familiar  face: 
I  thought  we  knew  him :  What,  It's  you, 

The  padded  man  — that  wears  the  stays— 

Who  killed  the  ghrls  and  thrilled  the  boys 
With  dandy  pathos  when  you  wrote! 

A  Lion,  you,  that  made  a  noise. 
And  shook  a  mane  en  papillotea. 

And  once  you  tried  the  Muses  too; 
You  failed.  Sir:  therefore  now  yon  turn, 


*  Omitted  from  the  editton  of  1$49. 

t  PnblUhed  Id  Punch,  Feb.  S8,  18M,  «igaed  AJdbindas. 


To  tkll  on  those  who  are  to  yon 
As  Captain  Lb  to  Subaltern. 

But  men  of  long-«ndaring  hopes, 
And  careless  what  this  hour  may  bring, 

Can  pardon  little  would-be  Popes 
And  Bruiimklb,  when  they  try  to  sting. 

An  Artist,  Sir,  should  rest  In  Art, 
And  wave  a  little  of  hiB/:Iaim; 

To  have  the  deep  Poetic  heart 
Is  more  than, all  poetic  fame. 

But  you.  Sir,  you  are  hard  to  please ; 

Tou  never  look  but  half  content: 
Nor  like  a  gentleman  at  ease. 

With  moral  breadth  of  temperament. 

And  what  with  spites  and  what  with  fears. 

You  can  not  let  a  body  be: 
It's  always  ringing  In  your  ears, 

"They  call  this  man  as  good  as  me." 

What  profits  now  to  understand 
The  merits  of  a  spotless  shirt- 

A  dapper  boot— a  little  band  — 
If  half  the  little  soul  is  dirt  ? 

You  talk  of  tinsel !  why,  we  see 

The  old  mark  of  rouge  upon  your  cheeks. 
You.  prate  of  Nature !  you  are  he 

That  split  his  life  about  the  cliques. 

A  TiMON  you !    Nay,  nay,  for  shame : 
It  looks  too  arrogant  a  jest — , 

The  fierce  old  man— to  take  his  name 
You  bandbox.    Off,  and  let  him  rest. 


AFTER-THOUGHT.— SONNET.— BRITONS,  GUARD  YOUR  OWN. 


Uii 


AFTERTHOUGHT.* 

Ab,  Ood  !  tb«  petty  too\»  of  rhjm*, 
That  ahrisk  and  iwoat  In  pigmy  wan 

B«ft>ra  Um  atony  lkc«  of  Tttnev 
And  kwk'd  at  by  the  allent  atara ;  — 

That  bate  each  other  Ibr  a  song, 
And  do  thi>lr  IUtl«  bo«t  to  blt(>. 

That  pinch  their  bruthem  in  the  throng, 
And  scratch  the  very  dead  for  spite;  — 

And  strive  to  make  an  Inch  of  room 
For  their  sweet  selTea,  and  can  not  hear 

The  snllen  Lethe  rolling  down 
On  them  and  theirs,  and  all  things  here ; 

Whon  one  small  tonch  of  Charity 
Could  lift  them  nearer  Godlike  State, 

Than  if  the  crowded  Orb  nhunld  cry 
Lilce  those  that  cried  Diama  great. 

And  /  too  talk,  and  lose  the  tonch 

I  talk  ot    Barely,  after  all. 
The  noblest  answer  nnto  such 

la  kindly  silence  when  they  bawl. 


SONNET 

TO  wnXIAM  OBABUn  MAOEKADT.t 

PAaBMKLL,  Macready,  since  to-night  we  part. 
Full-handed  thunders  often  have  confest  * 
Thy  power,  well-UMd  to  mure  the  public  breast. 

We  Uiank  thee  with  one  voice,  and  fbom  the  heart. 

Farewell,  Macready ;  since  this  night  we  part 
Go,  take  thine  honors  home:  rank  with  the  best, 
Oarrlck,  and  statelier  Kemble,  and  the  rest 

Who  made  a  nation  purer  thro'  their  art. 

Thine  is  it,  that  our  Drama  did  not  die, 
Nor  flicker  down  to  brainless  pantomime, 
And  those  gilt  gauds  men-children  swarm  to  see. 

Farewell,  Macready ;  moral,  grave,  sublime. 

Our  Shakspeare's  bland  and  universal  eye 
Dwells  pleased,  thro'  twice  a  handled  years,  ou 
thee. 


BRITONS,  GU.VRI)  YOUR  OWN.t 

Risa,  Britons,  rise,  if  manhood  be  not  dead ; 
The  world's  last  tempest  darkens  overhead ; 

The  Pope  has  bless'd  him; 

The  Church  caress'd  him ; 
He  triumphs;  may  be  we  shall  stand  alone. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

His  mthlees  hoet  is  bonght  with  plunder'd  gold. 
By  lying  priests  the  peasants'  votes  controll'd. 

All  freedom  vanish'd. 

The  true  men  banish'd. 
He  triumphs:  may  be  we  shall  stand  alone. 

Britona,  guard  yoor  own. 

Peace-lovers  we— sweet  Peace  we  all  desire  — 
Peace-lovers  we — but  who  can  trust  a  liarf  — 

Peace-lovers,  haters 

Of  shameless  traitors, 
We  hate  not  Prance,  bat  this  man's  heart  of  stone. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 


t  RMd  iy  Mr.JohB  FonlOT  a*  •  dfauMr  glva  to  Ml  Mawlj. 
Muck  l,U»l.<Nihiai«UiMMBtfr<adtoa^^ 

t  TU*  miikttw  feUmri^  ptaM*  wwn  pdatad  la  Ik*  riiwhii 
lalSSl.    TlMlHttweiMnritMd''ll«lte.» 


We  hat*  not  Franca,  bat  Wnae»  has  lott  bar  fo4c«u 
Thhi  man  to  Franca,  the  maa  f^  call  bar  cholera 

By  tricka  and  apjrlag, 

Bjf  craft  aad  lytag, 
And  nnnler  waa  ber  ftaedon  orarthtowiL 

Brltooa,  guard  yoor  own. 

"Vive  ntmpareor"  may  follow  bye  and  bye;" 
"God  save  the  Qneen  Is  here  a  truer  cry. 

God  aave  tba  Nation, 

The  tolaratioo, 
And  the  free  apeecb  that  makea  a  Briton  known. 

Britona,  guard  yoor  own. 

Rome's  dearest  daughter  now  is  captive  France, 
The  Jeaait  laughs,  and  reckoning  on  his  chnnrc. 

Would  anrelentlng, 

KUl  all  dlssenUng, 
Till  we  were  left  to  flght  for  truth  alone. 

Britona,  guard  your  own. 

Call  home  your  ships  across  Biacayan  tldf, 
To  blow  the  battle  fh>m  their  oaken  alder. 

Why  waste  they  yonder 

Their  idle  thunder  f 
Why  stay  they  there  to  guard  a  foreign  throne? 

Seamen,  guard  your  own. 

We  were  the  best  of  marksmen  Icmg  ago, 

We  won  old  battles  with  our  strength,  the  bow. 

Now  practice,  yeomen. 

Like  those  bowmen. 
Till  your  balls  fly  as  their  shafts  have  flown. 

Yeomen,  guard  your  own. 

His  soldier-ridden  Highness  might  incline 
To  take  Sardinia,  Belgium,  or  the  Rhine: 

Shall  we  stand  Idle, 

Nor  seek  to  bridle 
His  rude  aggressions,  till  we  stand  alone? 

Make  their  cause  your  own. 

Should  he  land  here,  and  for  one  hour  prevail. 
There  must  no  man  go  back  to  bear  the  tale : 

No  man  to  bear  it — 

Swear  it !  we  swear  it ! 
Although  we  flght  the  banded  world  alone, 

We  swear  to  guard  oar  own. 


THE  THIRD  OF  FEBRUARY,  1852. 

Mr  lords,  we  heard  you  speak;  you  told  us  all 
That  England's  honest  censure  went  too  Cu; 

That  our  free  press  should  cease  to  brawl. 
Not  sting  the  flery  Frenchman  into  war. 

It  was  an  ancient  privilege,  my  lords, 

To  fling  whate'er  we  felt,  not  fearing,  into  WOTdf>. 

We  love  not  this  French  God,  this  child  of  Hell. 

Wild  War,  who  breaks  the  converse  of  the  wise ; 
But  though  we  love  kind  Peace  so  well. 

We  dare  not,  e'en  by  silence,  sanction  Ilea. 
It  might  safe  be  our  censures  to  withdraw; 
And  yet,  my  lords,  not  well ;  there  Is  a  hi^er  law. 

As  long  as  we  remain,  we  must  Bftak  tnt. 
Though  all  the  storm  of  Europe  on  ua  break ; 

No  little  German  state  are  we, 
But  the  one  voice  in  Burope:  we  mmat  apeak; 

That  if  to-night  our  greatness  were  atmck  dead. 

There  might  remain  aome  record  of  the  things  w« 


If  you  be  fearftil,  then  must  we  l>e  bold. 
Our  Britain  can  not  aalve  a  tyrant  o'er. 


244 


HANDS  ALL  ROUND.— THE  WAR.— 1865-1866. 


Jletter  the  waste  Atlantic  roll'd 

Uu  her  and  ns  and  oars  forevermore. 
What  1  have  we  fought  for  freedom  from  our  prime, 
At  last  to  dodge  and  palter  with  a  public  crime? 

Shall  we  fear  him?  our  own  we  never  feared. 
From  our  first  Cbarleii  by  force  we  wruug  our 
claims, 
Prick'd  by  the  Papal  spur,  we  rear'd. 

And  flung  the  burthen  of -the  second  James. 
I  say  we  never  fear'd !  and  as  for  these, 
We  broke  them  on  the  laud,  we  drove  them  on  the 
seas. 

And  yon,  my  lords,  yon  make  the  people  ranee, 
In  donbt  If  you  be  of  our  Baron's  breed — 

Were  those  your  sires  who  fought  at  Lewes? 
Is  this  the  mauly  strain  of  Kuunymedef 

<)  fall'u  nobility,  that,  overawed. 

Would  lisp  in  houcy'd  whispers  of  thlB  monstrons 
fraud. 

We  feel,  at  least,  that  silence  here  were  sin. 

Not  ours  the  fault  if  we  have  feeble  hosts — 
If  easy  patrons  of  their  kin 

Have  left  the  last  free  race  with  naked  coasts! 
They  knew  the  precious  things  they  bad  to  guard : 
For  as,  we  will  not  spare  the  tyrant  one  bard  word. 

Thongb  niggard  throats  of  Manchester  may  bawl, 
What  England  was,  shall  her  tme  sons  forget  t 

We  are  not  cotton-spinners  all, 
But  some  love  England,  and  her  honor  yet. 

And  these  in  our  Thermopyls  shall  stand. 

And  hold  against  the  world  the  honor  of  the  land. 


HANDS  ALL  ROUND. 

First  drink  a  health,  this  solemn  night, 

A  health  to  EuKland,  everj-  guest ; 
That  man's  the  best  cosmopolite 

Who  loves  bis  native  country  best. 
May  Freedom's  oak  for  ever  live 

With  stronger  life  from  day  to  day; 
That  man's  the  best  C'onserv-atlve 

Who  lops  the  mouldered  branch  away. 
Hands  all  round! 

God  the  tyrant's  hope  confound ! 
To  this  great  cause  of  Freedom  drink,  my  friends. 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and  round. 

A  health  to  Europe's  honest  men ! 

Heaven  guard  them  from  her  tyrants'  jails  I 
From  wronged  Poerio's  noisome  den, 

From  ironed  limbs  and  tortured  nails ! 
We  curse  the  crimes  of  southern  kings. 

The  Russian  whips  and  Austrian  rods— 
We  likewise  have  our  evil  things ; 

Too  much  we  make  our  Ledgers,  Gods. 
Yet  hands  all  round  ! 

OoA  the  tyrant's  cauce  confound ! 
To  Europe's  better  health  we  drink,  my  friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and  round ! 

WTiat  health  to  France,  if  France  be  she, 

Whom  martial  progress  only  charms? 
Yet  tell  her — better  to  be  free 
'  Than  vanquish  all  the  world  in  arms. 
Her  frantic  city's  flashing  heats 

But  fire,  to  blast,  the  hopes  of  men. 
Why  change  the  titles  of  your  streets  ? 

You  fools,  you'll  want  them  all  again. 
Hands  all  round ! 

God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound! 
To  France,  the  wiser  France,  we  drink,  my  friends. 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and  round. 


Gigantic  daughter  of  the  West, 

We  drink  to  thee  across  the  flood, 
We  know  thee  and  we  love  thee  best. 

For  art  thou  not  of  British  blood  ? 
Should  war's  mad  blast  again  be  blown. 

Permit  not  thou  the  tyrant  powers 
To  fight  thy  mother  here  alone. 

But  let  thy  broadsides  roar  with  ours. 
Hands  all  round ! 

God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound! 
To  our  dear  kinsmen  of  the  West,  my  friends. 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and  roun.l. 

O  rise,  our  strong  Atlantic  sons. 

When  war  against  our  freedom  springs ! 
O  speak  to  Europe  through  your  guns! 

They  can  be  understood  by  kings. 
You  must  not  mix  our  Queen  with  those 

That  wish  to  keep  their  people  fools; 
Our  freedom's  foemen  are  her  foes, 

She  comprehends  the  race  she  rules. 
Hands  all  round ! 

God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound! 
To  our  dear  kinsmen  in  the  West,  my  friends. 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and  round. 


THE  WAR.* 

THniK  is  a  sound  of  thunder  afar, 

Storm  tn  the  South  that  darkens  the  day. 
Storm  of  battle  and  thunder  of  war. 
Well,  if  it  do  not  roll  our  way. 
Form !  form !  Riflemen  form ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm  I 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form ! 

Be  not  deaf  to  the  sound  that  warns  I 

Be  not  gull'd  by  a  despot's  plea! 
Are  figs  of  thistles,  or  grapes  of  tboms? 
How  should  a  despot  set  men  treel 
Form !  form !  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form ! 

Let  your  Refonns  for  a  moment  go. 

Look  to  your  butts  and  take  good  aims. 
Better  a  rotten  borough  or  so. 
Than  a  rotten  fleet  or  a  city  in  flames ! 
Form  !  form  !  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form ! 

Form,  be  ready  to  do  or  die ! 

Form  in  Freedom's  name  and  the  Queen'- 
True,  that  we  have  a  faithful  atly, 
But  only  the  Devil  knows  what  he  means. 
Form !  form !  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  1 

T. 


1865-1 866.  t 

I  STOOD  on  a  tower  In  the  wet. 

And  New  Year  and  Old  Year  met, 

And  winds  were  roaring  and  blowing ; 

And  I  said,  "  O  years  that  meet  in  tears, 

Have  ye  aught  that  is  worth  the  knowing? 

Science  enough  and  exploring. 

Wanderers  coming  and  going. 

Matter  enough  for  deploring. 

But  aught  that  is  worth  the  knowing?" 


*  Loodnn  Times,  May  9. 18S9. 
t  "  Good  Words,"  March,  18«8. 


ON  A  SPITEFUL  LETTER 


nr, 


SMa  at  my  ftot  were  flowing, 
Wavee  on  the  ■btngla  pouriuK, 
Old  Year  roaring  aod  bluwlng. 
And  New  Year  blowiog  and  roaring. 


ON  A  SPITEFUL  LETTER* 

licKK,  it  Ih  hiTo  — tho  cloae  of  the  year, 

And  with  it  a  *pitcftil  letter. 
Xy  fiune  in  song  has  done  hltn  mnch  wrong, 

For  himself  haa  done  much  better. 

0  ftwlish  bard,  is  jronr  lot  ao  hard, 
If  men  neglect  your  pages  r 

1  think  not  mnrh  of  yours  or  of  mine : 
I  hear  the  rull  of  the  agea. 

•  "  OlKWk  WMk,"  Janu.- 


This  lUlen  leaf;  laat  fkoM  m  brief  r 
My  rhymes  may  hare  heeii  the  stronger. 

Yet  hate  me  not,  hot  abide  yow  lott 
I  laat  but  a  moment  longer. 

()  (Hded  Icat;  isn't  flune  as  brief  t 
Whikt  nMim  Is  here  for  a  Itaterf 

Yet  tho  yellow  leaf  hatea  the  greener  leat 
For  it  liangs  one  moment  later. 

Qreater  than  I  —  lent  that  your  cry  f 

And  I  shall  live  to  see  It 
Well,  If  It  bo  so,  so  it  Is,  yon  know : 

And  If  It  be  so— so  be  It! 

O  tnmmer  leaf,  lun't  life  as  brief? 

Kilt  thltt  Ib  the  ttnu-  of  hollies. 
A  ml  my  heart,  my  henrt  In  an  erergreen : 

I  bale  the  »pitea  and  the  follies. 


THE  END. 


963 


